Worst Mom Moment: When Good Skiing Goes Bad

I’m so psyched (I know, I sound like a teenager from 1985, but I am indeed psyched) to be introducing you to Lindy. She’s a mom from my neck of the woods, only she’s one of the cool kids who gets to live in Tahoe (there I go with the high school thing again). Apparently Lindy has become an expert at screwing up her 5-year-old daughter and 7-year-old son by purchasing parenting books in bulk and then using all of their advice simultaneously. It’s a method she’s hoping to someday pass on to the rest of us (fingers crossed). Anyway, without further adieu, here’s one of Lindy’s many World’s Worst Mom Moments….

********

I tend to judge myself as a “good” or “bad” mom based on my children’s behavior, their success or failure, or how their day went. One day I’m beating myself up for my daughter’s atrocious table manners, and the next day I’m basking in my own glory because she brought home a stellar report card. But I know deep down that the judgment is counter-productive and the projection is warped thinking.

Now, I do believe that it’s important to objectively evaluate how the environment I foster impacts my kids. But in general, I create all sorts of messed-up meaning about me personally when it comes to the daily happenings of the little beings I think I’m supposed to raise into better versions of myself. This habit alone has caused more grief, inspired more twisted tactics, and exacerbated more problems than any other. So, I aspire to let go of any notions of good and bad, and to separate myself from the trials and triumphs of my waist-high gurus.

Easier said than done.

Photo by Lindy

I started taking the kids skiing when they were two years old. (I’ve been told that a kid who grows up in Tahoe and doesn’t ski or snowboard typically turns into a crack addict by age 14.) One recent Saturday, I took the kids to the mountain and I was riding a self-congratulatory high for how great it was. All the whining, crying, and resisting I’d endured over the last several years was finally paying off and it was actually fun skiing with them. They had great attitudes, they stuck together, and they’re becoming little rippers! In short, I was a fantastic mom. On Saturday.

Then I was a horrible mom on Sunday.

Sunday was a cabin-fever sort of day and the kids had been doing their routine all morning (sister gets in brother’s face, brother smacks her, sister cries). It was well below freezing outside, but so was the day before and I thought, “These monsters just need some fresh air! Better yet, the ski gear is still in the car!!” I made the fatal mistake of not noticing the bitter east wind and by the time we got on the first chairlift, I realized it was probably the coldest day in recorded history. Even though the kids wear some seriously nice hand-me-downs (wish I had a lavender Spyder ski suit…), no amount of gore-tex or poly-pro was going to cut it today. So we literally took two runs and had to abort mission because their poor feet were going numb. By the time we made it back to the car, they had completely lost it and both of them were screaming bloody murder.

Now here’s another flawed habit of mine: I tend to be really patient for probably too long and then suddenly and completely blow my stack. This is essentially what happened. And as it was happening, it was one of those moments where you can almost see yourself from the outside and you know you’re going crazy, but you can’t stop yourself. I found myself gripping my son’s face after I yanked off his helmet and yelling like someone in a war movie, “GET A GRIP, KID! I KNOW YOU’RE COLD AND I WILL GET YOU TO THE LODGE AS FAST AS I CAN BUT YOU HAVE TO PULL IT TOGETHER! SCREAMING IS NOT HELPING ANYONE AND IF YOU DON’T STOP, I MIGHT ACTUALLY KILL YOU. WE JUST NEED TO GET TO THE BAR WHERE I CAN GET YOU A HOT CIDER AND ME A BEER.”

And as I’m yelling the word “beer” and it’s painfully clear that I’m not remotely consoling my children, I glance around and pray that no one’s observing. But of course, the guy loading himself into the car next to me is smirking and pretending not to notice. I’m trying my best not to care, but the truth is I’m not that secure and I actually do care what complete strangers think of me and my kids. Pointless, I know.

So I stand back from the siren song duet enough to notice that this guy’s got his daughter with him, about age 11 or 12, and I sheepishly acknowledge that we are making a ridiculous scene, “he he, fun times, he he…” And to my utter relief, the guy chuckles and says, “I’ve been there.”

And suddenly it’s not so bad. I just needed a little empathy, a little hope that some day we’ll be past this stage and on to something else. I love people who are willing to admit that parenting’s just hard sometimes, for everyone. It makes it a little easier to be kind to ourselves and embrace our kids for who they are.

*If you’d like to share one of your Worst Mom Moments (and you know you do), just send it to WorldsWorstMoms@gmail.com.