Mom Things I’m Genuinely Bad At

(And one I’m good at.)

Parenthood is the ultimate litmus test of human character. It tests your patience, your resilience, your ability to survive on two hours of sleep and shift your adult interests to puree makers and poop consistency. You enter the whole thing with an idyllic vision of the patient and wise role model you’re going to be, only to realize about a year in that you actually lack all the foundation qualities of said person, and are more like the mom from Home Alone, minus the extra kids. As I enter the heart of the toddler experience that is the 20-month mark, I can confidently list the things that have proved to be my biggest parenting challenges – and one that hasn’t. I fully expect you to chime in in the comments, by the way. 

Narration. I feel like, at some point, all moms went to a secret class where they learned to narrate everything their child is doing right back to them on autopilot. “Oh, that’s a PURPLE TYRANNOSAUR you’re holding! Wow! What a cool PURPLE TYRANNOSAUR!” they squeal, sounding like they have just chugged five Red Bulls in one sitting. While I completely understand the value of describing the surrounding world to a child in grand detail, I’m quite terrible at it, for it always feels fake, constrained and unnatural. P.S. Not only do they do it to their own children, but do the same thing to other people’s kids too, making up adorable little narrations for my daughter while I grin foolishly at their kid, feeling utterly inadequate, My only consolation is that, according to Bringing Up Bébé, French parents don’t narrate their toddlers’ lives, and it all works out, so I’m hedging my bets on that. 

Following protocol. At this point, I’ve listened to every single tantrum podcast that Spotify pulls up when I search the dreaded word. And yet, every time my daughter has a meltdown, I completely freeze up and go into panic mode, scouring my brain for the sequence of things I’m supposed to do, or just hissing “Stop it!” (According to the podcasts, I have to “unpack my feelings” as to why tantrums make me feel 50 shades of crazy, but I’ve been too busy, you know, surviving.) The same thing applies to “labeling feelings,” i.e., telling my kid exactly what she’s feeling so that she grows up knowing how to process her emotions, a skill I so clearly lack. The way I’m going, my child will only ever know how to identify one feeling, and that is hungry. Don’t even get me started on screen time recommendations – I’m fairly certain my daughter genuinely considers JJ from Cocomelon her closest friend. 

Making mom friends. I don’t know if it’s me or the city of Los Angeles, but I’ve found it impossible to make mom friends with kids of a similar age. The women in my Mommy and Me in Beverly Hills are a cult that requires one to get pregnant every year and treat motherhood like a competitive sport. All the other moms I’ve met through through sporadic classes and friend “setups” live in other neighborhoods, which, in LA, might as well mean other cities.  My play dates over the past year have included a children’s museum date with a 24-year-old mom who had as much energy as the kids and made me feel ancient, and one playground trip with a Brentwood mom of three whose husband is 40 years her senior and is on to his second kid batch of offspring. This wouldn’t really be an issue, except for the pervasive guilt I experience when I realize that I’m depriving my daughter of socialization with kids her age (God bless JJ).

Playing preschool teacher. In all my idyllic parental daydreams, I always imagined myself sitting with my child at a little desk for hours on end, teaching them the nuances of the French language and Russian literature. As it turns out, I’m hardly capable of sitting at a little desk with a coloring book and a box of crayons for more than 15 minutes without pining for my phone. (My daughter has actually slapped the phone out of my hands on multiple occasions, resulting in #momguilt and a recent semi-deletion of Instagram). The idea of reading Go, Dog, Go to her one more time sends an actual tremble down my spine. Teaching her colors is about as much fun as quantum physics – in fact, the only reason my child knows anything at all is because of my (amazing) mother and her (amazing) nanny. Patience, the very cornerstone of motherhood, seems to be quite low on my list of virtues, which makes me feel like I need to start saving up for tutors pronto.

And yet, since I do live in LA and am finally sipping the kool aid of self-acceptance and positive thinking (and will fully report on this “journey” when the time comes), I will say this. It doesn’t really matter if you’re bad at any of these things, as long as you are good at the one and only thing that matters, which is loving your kid to death no matter how many diabolical exorcist-style tantrums he or she throws your way. In fact, one would say that diabolical tantrums are a telltale sign of your child feeling extremely safe with you, which means that you are doing the most important thing right. You’re giving them the unconditional, unbreachable love that they will carry with them forever. As for the rest of it, there’s always JJ. 

And now, what are your biggest parental weaknesses?