The Mom Report Card.

"We gon' be alright." 

- Kendrick Lamar

Some days? Man. I feel like the worst mom ever. 

Wait.

That might come across more dramatic than I intended. I mean, obviously not the actual worst in the history of crappy moms. Like, not as bad as that woman I recall seeing on some photo on-line who was taking some really inappropriate selfie snapshots in her bathroom mirror clad in pretty much nothing. . . .  but neglected to note the reflection of her infant child sitting on the tile floor behind her-- in what appeared to be a very full diaper.

Yeah. So maybe not the worst.

But seriously though? There are some days that I just feel like I'm flying on one wing as a mother. And as if my shortcomings will ultimately lead to the same unfortunate demise of a plane trying to operate with only one wing.

Yeah.

Okay, so honestly? Most days, I don't feel this way. But man. When I do? I like really do. I'll be doing something like hurrying to get the kids somewhere. And then my poor planning mixed with their lack of urgency explodes into me barking orders and eventually just setting the house alarm forcing them out of the house. Sometimes holding socks and shoes in their hands. Okay, a lot of times even.

See? I told you it wasn't pretty.

So then we get in the car and someone says a smart ass comment. Or declares that they forgot something quasi-essential to their future success as a student and it becomes abundantly clear that, given our tardiness already, that they'll just be shit out of luck for the day. And I find myself communicating all of this to my kids minus the word "shit" but with enough surly snark to count just as much as the aforementioned expletive.

Yeah. So that's how it goes on some days. And without fail, when the last kid is dropped off, my shoulders slump and I let out a big, defeated sigh. Followed by saying (many times out loud): "You so suck." Then, like always, I start running down my grades on my Mom progress report determining that I just might be at risk for academic mom probation.

Case in point:

Breakfast: Wait. You didn't eat breakfast? Shit. I thought you popped down a waffle, dude. Ugh.

Lunch: Not organic. At least one item with too much sugar.  Or conversely something so healthy that my kid won't eat it at all.

House: Lived in looking. Not hotel neat. Unless somebody other than mom does the clean up job.

Laundry: In dire need of doing. With simultaneous need for done things to be folded. Or moved from the couch after being half folded. Or just so badly in need of doing that everyone is to the point of beach towels being used for regular Tuesday evening showers. Eek.

Homework: Asked about but not confirmed on school website that day. So hoping it's exactly what the kid said it is. A form needs to be signed that I did sign but we left on the kitchen table after I kicked everyone out with the house alarm.

Dinner: You asked for breakfast for dinner. And I said yes. Twice in one week.

Night time reading: Me listening to Audible and you reading whatever I told you to read. Then you bargaining video game time with reading time. And eventually you listening to my Audible book with me, even if an occasional F-bomb is in it.

And so on.

So I go through all of this until I come up with a Mom grade point average which, on days like this, is not EVEN passing. Like, at all. Nope.

So yeah. A few weeks ago that's how I was feeling. Like the mom on mom-probation for poor performance in several subjects.

Yup.

So when this happens, I do my best to chuck myself under the chin. I say stuff to myself like, "They know they are loved. It will all balance out in the end." Then I close my eyes and imagine them slapping knees and laughing as grown up men about how their mom used to flip on the alarm and force them out of the front door in 60 seconds or less. But in the most loving way, of course.

Ha.

I'm not a perfect mom by a long shot. I'm not. And while I do think that I do a great job of loving my children and letting them know how much I love being their mom, on my beat-myself-up days, I tell myself that the best moms do that and feed their kids gluten-free, grass-fed, cage-free, organic food dinners and set timers for video game time. They plan camps like 5 years in advance for the summer instead of 5 days and they don't throw their kids out of the front door under the duress of a beeping ADT alarm. See, man. Those great mamas do all of this. 

And then they do some hot yoga after all of that.

I was exceptionally sucky the other day. I'd made the mistake of starting "Born a Crime" by Trevor Noah on Audible while walking Willow one morning. Oh my goodness. . . the combination of his witty candor and that mesmerizing South African accent of his drew me all the way in. Like. . . . all the way in, man.

Sigh.

My kids would be asking me stuff and I'd yank out one ear bud, raise an eyebrow and try my best not to look impatient. But since my kids know how I get when I get into a crack-equivalent Audible narration that this is just par for the course. Mom will do 90% of everything with iPhone earbuds in until finally that creepy music pipes in that says, "This has been a production of Audible."

I even set the house alarm while listening to Trevor Noah this morning. "You got 60 seconds, dudes. Chop chop," I said. I wish I could say that wasn't true. See? Those really good moms would never do something like that. The only person who gets a mom upgrade when I'm on an Audible binge is Willow because he almost always can count on a longer walk. Otherwise everyone else? Not so much. Ha.

Anywho.

I am really just rambling mostly about how this motherhood thing isn't for sissies, man. It's no joke. Especially when you intermittently suck as a mom.

Ha.

Now. Before you go worrying about me, know that I generally think well of myself. And though my marks in the mom class are not always passing, I have an extensive history of figuring out how to round out my grade in the end. So I'm hoping big time that this is what happens with these two little dudes living under this roof with the BHE and me.

Which reminds me of something else that happened recently. Like to hear it? Here it go.

So check it: A few months ago, I was in one of my mom-probation slumps. While I wasn't Audible binging or Netflix binging, I was busy with work and generally ready for the kids to be out of school. Most of my head butting was with Isaiah and somehow it almost always went down when it was just us two in the car. He's now twelve and growing smarter and smarter by the year. But not just smart. Smart and a smart-ass at the same time.

Now.

Because this kid has always been an old soul with a cantankerous streak like an old man in a barber shop, he likes to push my buttons. Questions things that are generally worth questioning but does so at the most inopportune times. Furthermore, he calls me out on things that are 100% true which, when I'm running late or already feeling a bit low, I could do without.

Ugggh.

So on this one day, Isaiah began pointing out that I need to work on not being distracted behind the wheel. Then he started talking about how just because I'm not texting doesn't mean I'm not distracted. And since he's like an old man, I come right back at him like he's not even a kid. Or rather, like I'm not even an adult. Yeah. More like that. It's pretty funny, actually.

"Mom. Checking your eyelash make up stuff at a red light is still a distraction."

"It's called mascara."

"Well checking it makes people honk at you. That guy was honking because you needed to go."

"I did go."

"Once he honked."

"Horn honking is rude, man. Where I'm from? You don't go honking your horn for no reason."

"He had a reason. You were looking in that visor mirror checking picking black stuff off your eyelashes. Which looks not so good anyway so I'm not sure why you do it."

"Do me a favor. Let's ride in silence."

"That's not a favor."

"You're killing me."

"I want you not to be looking in the mirror so you won't be killing me."

I scowl in the mirror. He smirks back. And eventually the whole cycle restarts with another surly exchange.  So yeah. This went on for probably the last few weeks of school. And each day we'd bicker about the most unimportant things of all time. Then, I'd ask him a question about something he needed to have done and from there, would end up shifting from petty tween with him to fussing, nagging mom.

Yeah.

After enough days like this, you start feeling like you're dropping the mom ball, man. My sweet baby that wanted to hug and cuddle me was now groaning in my direction and ducking my hugs. I told myself that this was age appropriate although some piece of me had always hoped that tween-age behavior would somehow skip my boys.

So yeah. That was going on and I was feeling tired. Tired of no longer being sweet and awesome mom. I liked being her. Man, I did.

This one day, I pulled into Isaiah's school on two wheels to pick him up at the last minute from after school care. I scurried up the path to the gym and another mom decided she'd chat with me--even though I was clearly in a hurry.

"Did you see the 6th grade art project?"

"Um, no. I need to see it." Another reminder of my poor mom grades. Because clearly she'd seen it.

"You should stop on the way out to see it," she said.

"Uhh. . . yeah, I'll be sure to check it out." I started walking to the door. But she spoke again.

"It's pretty amazing. Especially Isaiah's part. Did he tell you about his part?"

Another 'F' on my record. "I'm trying to remember." Except I wasn't trying to remember. I'd heard him mention the 6th grade art project and how he'd decided what he'd do. I asked if he needed anything and he said no. So that was it.

I did at least know that the project was this giant tapestry made up of tiles drawn by kids in the class. That compliment given of Isaiah's part didn't shock me considering he's a pretty creative dude. But her persistence was a bit off putting. "You should really consider stopping in the main building to see it before you leave today."

That was the last thing she said.

When Isaiah got into the car, I asked him about the project. "What'd you do?" I queried.

And he shrugged a surly twelve year old shrug, yawned and leaned his head against the window.

Grrrr.

I whipped my minivan around and made my way out of the parking lot. That woman imploring me to look at the art display niggled at me. Finally I pulled right next to the door and told Isaiah I wanted to run in to see the project.

"Coming with?" I asked.

"Nah. I'm good," he replied.

And so. I punch in the door code and hustle inside. Immediately I see this big quilt-like thing covering part of the cafeteria wall. It's made up of several squares each drawn by a different pair of hands.

"Oh. Okay, I get it," I said out loud. I said that because the project was a tribute to Influential African American Women in US History. This very liberal parent at my child's very liberal school was encouraging me, a black woman, to revel in this special celebration of sisters lovingly put together by my son's entire grade. Like, urgently.

Well that was nice.

I stood there looking. Lip jutted out and nodding. Ode to black women movers and shakers, huh? Cool. So yeah, I guess it's fair to say it did make my heart feel warm knowing that this activity is what his entire class was working on and thinking about and talking about. And that his school had deemed this the kind of thing worthy of their attention.

Not to mention it wasn't even February, man.

So I'm checking it out. It was an impressively diverse group of women, too. From several eras which was pretty darn awesome. Sojourner Truth. Phillis Wheatley. Michelle Obama. Marian Wright Edelman. Shirley Chisholm. Nikki Giovanni. Simone Biles. Oprah Winfrey. Lena Horne. Barbara Jordan. Debbie Allen. Misty Copeland. Maya Angelou and. . . . wait. . .who?

So there it was. Plain as day. My name. Kimberly Manning. Listed among the Harriet Tubmans and the Ruby Dees. My name. Chosen by my child as his Influential African American Woman in US history.

Wearing a damn superhero cape, no less. Seriously? Seriously.

Yeah, man.

I stood there in silent disbelief for at least two or three minutes. Then I slipped back into my car and started the ignition. Isaiah was now dozing off in the back seat.

"Son?" He opened his eyes and didn't move. His eyebrows went up to let me know he heard me. "Son?"

"Yes, ma'am." His voice was flat, purely obligatory. He knows his mother well enough to recognize that that second "son" meant to open his mouth and answer with words.

"I saw your drawing. For the project. That was amazing." I immediately started to cry.

"Oh my gosh, Mom. Are you seriously crying?"

"Of all the people though. I guess. . .I don't know. . . you picked me?"

He shrugged. "They said for us to pick an Influential African American Woman in US History. So I told my teacher that my mom is a doctor who writes and teaches. And that she's super influential to a lot of people." I just stared through the rear view mirror. Then he added, "Or at least she is to me."

After that, he just let his eyelids fall closed again and didn't say much else. Which was fine with me because I was trying my best not to let him hear me full-on ugly crying while driving the whole way home.

Yeah.

So listen. . . .  there are some days that I feel like a complete mom failure. And definitely in the runner-up finalists for the worst mom ever. But then. . . something happens that makes me feel like I just nailed the final exam and brought my grade all the way back up to a solid A, man.

This? This was one of those times.

Am I a perfect mom? Nope. But if this . . .this is who my kid envisions when he takes out a box of colored pencils to describe his mother and whom he perceives to be an influential black woman? Then I just might pass this Mom class after all.

Maybe even with honors.


Yeah.

***

The Monster in Me.

Funny thing about a garden

Beauty lives within its gates

Bugs and thorns and weeds they grow there

But they all help to create

Vivid color variations

Sweet aromas and sensations

Realize under it all

Something not so beautiful but we all

Need a little bit, I need a little bit

Need a little bit of dirt to grow

We need a little bit, I need a little bit

Need a little rain to wash our souls

We need a little bit, I need a little dirt to grow

~ from Mary Mary

____________

I pray over my children these words as they sleep:

"Lord, please protect them from monsters. Especially the monster in me."

The monster in me.

I am not a perfect mother by any stretch. Many of my meals would not be considered nutritious by anybody's food pyramid standards. I rush my kids more than I should and answer my phone to talk while I'm driving. I lose my patience with homework four out of five days and on some days I even want to cry a little bit. Partly because I have no idea how to do whatever it is my child has been asked to do but also because I just wish that, on this particular day, they could just do it without asking me.

Yes. I said it. Horrible right?

After work, I feel tired. Too tired for stuff like kids who want to be playful when they have a crap ton of homework and too tired to fight about taking showers. And it's not because I don't want to be playful with them. It's just that kids sometimes don't prioritize ninja battles over new math. It makes my head hurt when I think about it since I'm not fully convinced they should.

There are days that I kiss them from the living room and tell them to go hit the sack without any sort of tuck-in pomp or circumstance. I give in sometimes on things like letting my kid wear his Marshawn Lynch jersey three of the the five week days or I've decided that my other kid's propensity for never, ever wearing his Vans with socks (even in the dead of winter) is just too first world an issue for me to fight. We sprint like Flo Jo to the bus stop more often than we should. I fall asleep on my kids when they're reading to me and fall asleep while I'm reading to them.  A lot.

I sure do.

And some weeks are worse than others. Some weeks, yes, hot dogs are for dinner and breakfast is on the supper menu on another day. And as I'm serving it, I'm thinking, "June Cleaver would so not do this" or "I bet every other mom at my kids' schools are serving up some organic, gluten free gourmet feast right about now." I try to measure it out and say that prayer again, hoping it isn't too blasphemous to be crossing my fingers for added luck. When I'm speaking those prayers during my craziest weeks, I add on words like, "Please, please, please, let their minds hold tightly to the good things I do and their memories have amnesia to the bad things I do."

Am I too tough on them? Or not tough enough? Do I give them enough attention? Or not enough? Is it the right attention even? And. . .am I the bully I so vehemently warn them about with my exasperated digs during homework time? Am I? Hell if I know.

My point is just that life is such a swinging pendulum, you know? One day it peaks to the right as you being the world's most awesome mother and other days it sharply goes left and you (feel like you) suck. And I guess what I think about and pray about a lot is that line between what is just me being inside of my head and something real. Like really in the grand scheme of things will it be permanently damaging to hear me raise my voice over language arts or will it instead just be a blink on the radar? I honestly have no idea.

Many of us go by our upbringing. Mine is an N of 4--Will, Deanna, JoLai and myself. I remember a lot of things and mostly have very, very sweet memories of how my mom was with us day to day. I recall the period where she went back to college and the very basic meals that we had back then. My mom was no foodie when we were growing up and isn't now. But not having a meal that took her all day doesn't stand out. I recall scrambling eggs and eating cereal a lot, too. Yes, I remember it but more with warm nostalgia than anything else.

Those are the things I do remember. Either my mother rarely rushed us or I just don't recall it. With four children, I imagine that she had to crack the whip sometimes. I also have no recollection of homework being a challenge. Like ever. And maybe because it wasn't. But some piece of me deeply hopes that we did get rushed and that we did frustrate the heck out of our mom over our homework on a weekly basis. And that I'm simply amnestic to it all.

Sigh.

I am rambling, I know. And honest-to-goodness I'm just sorting out thoughts. I don't have the answers at all. But in this world of social media making people's lives and parenting looks so perfect, I am okay with saying, "Not this one over here." But am I trying at it? You're damn right I am.

Let me also say this: Nothing is wrong. I am not feeling sad today nor has some pivotal child issue rattled my cage. Not one bit. The kids are alright and the BHE is, too. I just like to unpack pieces of my life and then repack them again. I like reflecting and wondering and sorting through thoughts. And this is just one of the places where I do it.

So don't worry. Okay? Don't.

I just think that it's really deep to be a parent, man. And in my faith we believe that God entrusts us with our children. That idea is heavy, too, you know? Like think about the most precious things you own and who you'd trust to handle whatever that may be. So I also utter words of thankfulness for that piece of it and also petition to be equipped with whatever I need to get it right and not damage what's been loaned to me for a while.

Yeah. So my point is, as much as I fear some wretched piece of this big world robbing my children of their innocence or worse, their confidence. . . . deep down I believe that it's important to protect our kids from the worst, most broken parts of ourselves, too. That is, until they're old enough to understand those pieces of us.

In other words, sometimes we can be the big bad wolves or the monsters under the beds. And what's worse is, if we aren't careful, we're the ones that never go away.

That's all I've got, y'all. Thanks for listening.


_____

Life at times can make you weak
And I have cried myself to sleep
'Cause reality makes you cry
But the truth will dry your eyes

Things they just can't stay the same
When you work hard and you pray
Yeah, it may be kind of rough now
But the point I'm trying to make is that we

We all need a little bit, I need a little bit
Need a little bit of dirt to grow
We need a little bit, I need a little bit
Need a little rain to wash our souls
We need a little bit, I need a little dirt to grow

Oh, sometimes you may sing for yourself
You struggle hard just to prevail
It's the lesson you need to learn
It's the way you've got to earn

Champions never accept defeat
They fall and get back on their feet
'Cause they know like I know
That if you want to grow we

We all need a little bit, I need a little bit
Need a little bit of dirt to grow
We need a little bit, I need a little bit
Need a little rain to wash our souls
We need a little bit, I need a little dirt to grow. . . 


***
Happy Humpday.


Now playing on my mental iPod . . . this song encouraged me this morning after thinking about all of this. Maybe it will encourage someone else, too. Mary Mary singing "Dirt."

Awesome.

On the way home with Isaiah after his first day of robotics camp:

Me:  So, bud, tell me. How was robotics camp today?

Isaiah:  (in that serious Isaiah voice with big wide Isaiah eyes) Mom?

Me:  (eying him through rear view mirror and bracing myself) Uhhhh. . . yes, bud?

Isaiah:  Mom, robotics camp today was. . . .(choosing his words in that very Isaiah way)  it was . . . . awesome. It was just . . . . so, so awesome, Mom.

Me:  (exhaling majorly)  Phew! Oh good! For a minute there I thought you were going to say something different because you looked and sounded so serious.

Isaiah:  No, Mom. It was awesome. (I love the way he kept saying "awesome" with this throaty growl.) And I can tell that every day of it is gonna be awesome.

Me:  That's great, buddy. Daddy and Mom really hoped you'd like it.

Isaiah:  I really, really do.  (face gets serious again)

Me:  Zay? You okay?

Isaiah:  I was just thinking, that's all.

Me:  Can ask what you were thinking about?

Isaiah:  (now staring out of the backseat window) Mom. . . . I was just. . . . I was just thinking that. . . . . I just have a really good life, Mom. Where I get to do good things and go cool places and then just come home and be with my family.  I have a happy life. That's all I was thinking about, Mom.

Me:  (Now staring forward and full on crying in the driver's seat--and hoping he doesn't notice)  Oh. . *sniffle* .  . .okay. That's great, bud. That's just. . . . .awesome.


Man. Sometimes? Sometimes we get it right.

Yeah.

***
Happy Friday. And Happy Birthday to my baby sissy, JoLai. I knew she'd like this exchange because she is a part of all of our awesome.

Hearing this in my head on a loop. I caught Isaiah awake and watching this video on an iPad at midnight yesterday. Sometimes he and Zachary will watch it five times in a row or more. And I always let them. :)

Life is a celebration ~ Team Manning. . . . I'm Yours from Kimberly Manning on Vimeo.

Realizations.

"You know what I just realized, Mom? She was one of my very best friends in the world."

~ Isaiah, Age 8, on Tuesday morning

___________________________________

He asked me if the tears those words brought to my eyes were "happy ones or sad ones." 

"Both," I told him. "But mostly happy ones from hearing that you feel that way about her. Because I feel that way, too."

***

Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod and making me cry more. . . but happy ones. . . 

After rounds today.

1. Came home.

2. Showered the hospital off of me.

3. And then this.

All four of them have known each other since before any of them could even talk. Imagine that.

Here's what I've learned: 

No matter what it is you have to do, always save some of yourself for the ones you love. And not just any old parts of yourself. The fun parts. The happy parts. The best parts.

And look. I don't always succeed at doing that. I don't. Sometimes they get the dozing-off-on-the-couch parts. Or the working-on-my-laptop parts. 

But some days? Man. Some days, I get it right. 

***

Happy Saturday. Again.

Sometimes we get it right.

Isaiah sat and worked on this all by himself yesterday. In the morning when he woke up, after soccer, and after his bath--determined to finish. Not one stitch of help from any person other than him. He sat there quietly with his finger on each step and followed those heinous little Lego directions with those teensie-weensie pieces until he finished.

And he did finish.

It was important to him to do this one all alone, with no help, and no lost pieces. And if you've ever seen the new generation of Legos, those pieces can be smaller than a newborn baby's pinky fingernail--for real. 

The look on his face when he finished -- so priceless. I said, "That's awesome, Isaiah! You must be really proud of yourself!"

And he said, "I am VERY proud of myself!!!"

Yes sir, that's my baby.

Can't you just see it on his face? How proud he is of himself?

I was proud of him, too. And something about that moment made me feel proud of myself for being his mom. You know? Sometimes. . . sometimes we get it right.

***
Happy Monday