A tale of two mommies

They were the best of kids. They were the worst of kids.  And something was always about to be spilled.

But I am getting ahead of myself.  And so I shall go back to the beginning:

They were journalists of vastly different talents.

One was the "creative" type - a constant source of colorful stories, many of which - much to the disappointment of her editors - were strictly for in-house entertainment. 

The other was a hard-driving, management-bound overachiever, whose long hours and can-do attitude on the bankruptcy court beat endeared her to her supervisors but didn't exactly make her the life of the office party.  (Um, sure, we'd love to hear more about new operating capital provisions under chapter 11...) 

Even so, both found love in the newsroom, and in 1994, found themselves in a family way.

Three days apart in 1995, there were baby boys, who could not have been more perfect.  Baby girls soon followed.  But here, their diaper bags diverged.

Management mommy took what, at the time, seemed like the harder road.  She headed back to the  office, polishing her credentials all the way to the big office and the executive paycheck, relying on childcare, housekeeping and a variety of other outsourcing arrangements.

The story teller opted for what she liked to call "actual parenting,"  a selfless and noble undertaking which, as she frequently reminded Management Mommy,  was in no way morally superior, but which she nevertheless described in a superior way, even while also employing the services of a part-time nanny, a cleaning service and a figure skating coach.  Because her children meant everything to her.

Management Mommy, meanwhile, struggled with the fear that she was not a good parent because she worked long hours and secretly loved her job.  Creative Mommy struggled with the fear that she had compromised her career and her financial security and that without a full-time paycheck she would be forced to buy shoes from the clearance rack.

Each sought to reassure the other.

"Maybe you won't have enough money to send your kids to college,"  Management Mommy would say. "But at least you had all that time to read stories to them when they were little."

"I am sure she is just going through a stage," Creative Mommy would say. "It probably has nothing to do with the fact that she doesn't see you until bedtime."

And so it went, year after year,  a tiny slice of the ongoing social experiment known as  "Mommy Wars."  Because what is the point of making choices if you can't make someone else's choices seem wrong?

The boys are teenagers now, the girls are in their final years of elementary school, and it isn't hard to see the results.

At least it isn't hard for me, because, as usual, they are all in my house, wrecking my furniture and leaving sticky cans of half-drunk soda in the bookshelves.  Management Mommy is traveling on business and staying in fancy hotels where, presumably, the floors are not covered in chocolate syrup and fireplace ash.

The girls are plotting some new kind of mischief, having not yet exhausted the possibilities of homewrecking with their fire making, arts and crafts and cosmetics experiments.

The boys'  faces are frozen into unconvincing expressions of wide-eyed innocence.  From questions about egg shells on the front porch to Rice Krispies in the couch cushions, they answer every accusation with an equally unconvincing "Whuut?"

They are a handful, these children, and when they get together they are more trouble than the sum of their parts.   They are sneaky, dishonest, expensive and messy.  Also loud. They destroy every room they enter and their standards of personal hygiene are, to be frank, not really standards at all.

How is it possible that they are all like this?  Which side gets to chalk up the win?  I have to admit I cannot say.

But I do know this: something is going to be spilled.

Photos: The best of kids, the worst of kids.

Comments

[foolery]

Tell Management Mommy and Creative Mommy that there is a third choice: both parents work opposite hours. Foolery Mommy gets to work all week, coming home to Daddy's World (Where Daddy Is Not Just King But Emperor And Maybe God) in the evenings. And Foolery Mommy gets to be the heavy. And she is loathed by the children, AND she wears clearance rack shoes. So now Management Mommy and Creative Mommy can ease up on each other and disparage Foolery Mommy for a while, because Foolery Mommy deserves it.

(Also, Foolery Mommy loved this post and is sorry for the LONG comment.)

[Ok, Where Was I?]

I, too, loved this post. I kept thinking, Oh, that's a great line. But then there'd be another and another.

I don't have clearance rack shoes. I have slippers.