Are We There Yet?
Once again, I am not the mother of the year
Lori Clinch

With the new school year rapidly approaching, the sales are everywhere and I've noticed that practically every business in town is getting on the bus.

Florists have back-to-school sales, lumber yards run return-to-education specials, and I hope that the airlines will soon join the crowd and offer a special to fly me right out of town.

Although the "back to school" commercials show people preparing for the season by loading up brushes at the paint store and stocking up on hammers, any mother worth her pens and pencils can tell you that it just ain't so.

Real mothers prepare with glue sticks, tablets, and downing the last of the cooking sherry.

A better woman would help her children get ready for school by putting them back on a rigorous schedule. She would encourage an extra hour of reading every day, change the family discussions from sandboxes to advanced chemistry, and replace the television with a dry erase board so she can brush the kids up on the concepts of photosynthesis.

Me, I like to prepare for the new school year by sticking a "back to school" coupon in my checkbook and then losing my purse until long after the specials have subsided. And since my children aren't scholars and would rather roll in the mud than dig into a book, I have to bring up the subject of education carefully.

Although it's just around the corner, the mere mention of the word "school" is still enough to send my boys screaming into the streets in a panic. In fact, they've hidden their backpacks, stashed their notebooks, and although I've offered bonus points and extra credit for the first person who could produce last year's pencil box, my kids flat-out refuse to admit that the season of learning is upon us.

Knowing that only procrastinators procrastinate, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands and forced myself to do what every mother has to do come August: I took a deep breath and encouraged myself to open my children's closet doors and face the music.

I'm sure that any mother with a dry erase board would step into her children's closets in the middle of August and be hit with the aroma of a Downy fabric sheet. I'm sure she'd then look at her child's clothes all filed in alphabetical order and smile down upon her little dear as she patted herself on the proverbial back for a parenting job well done.

Once again, I am not that mother.

I can't simply open my child's closet door; I have to work my way up it. I have to start with a good, strong cup of coffee that's been laced with crme for endurance. Then I have a talk with myself that's reminiscent of a motivational speech. "You are a good person, Lori," I say as I steady myself. "You are nice, you are special, and doggone it, Lori, people like you!"

Then I shake my head, let the tension run through my fingertips, and jog in place for three seconds or so until beads of sweat form on my forehead. Then, as I brace myself for the pain, I throw open the closet door.

"Ah, c'mon," I exclaimed yesterday to no one in particular. "I've washed these clothes, I've tossed these toys, and did no one take the time to appreciate what I did with the color-coordinated labeling system?"

"Are you mad at me?" asked a little apple-chewing cherub as he appeared at my side.

"Well," I responded as I resisted the urge to ground him for life, "what were you thinking when you pulled the bulk of your clothes down off the hangers?"

"I was thinking that I don't like any of this stuff," he responded as he tossed the core into the pile and began to walk away.

The dry-erase-board mother would have pulled out a handy-dandy parenting guide and followed steps 17 through 28 titled "How to Handle a Sloppy Child Without Anger." She would have drawn out a plan of organization with her decorative markers, created a "to do" list for her youngster, and perhaps offered him Batman stickers to place on a chart for being such a great kid.

I suppose the fact that I didn't consult my parenting guide before I reacted didn't do my image any good. But I'm certain that the way that I screamed, and the way that I hollered certainly proved it for once and for all: I am not that mother.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.