The working title of this blog is obvious: “what happens when you’re mama doesn’t raise you right.”

Now that I’ve gotten my mother’s attention, I’ll confess that I think my mother raised me right. I mean she had some suspect DNA to work with AND it was the seventies. The problem is that well into my thirties I have managed to maintain the spirit, sense of drama, and utter lack of self-control of a thirteen-year-old girl. (No disrespect to any lovely and self-possessed  thirteen-year-old girls intended or implied).

Sassy. How else to explain that while I struggle mightily to be a Role Model For My Children I fail so miserably at it? My mother (she of the aforementioned struggling to raise me right fame) spends an inordinate amount of time reminding me that while I tend to THINK I have a “poker face” and remain cool, calm, and collected under duress, I am very much mistaken. When angered or annoyed, I have a certain narrowing of the eye and set to the jaw that virtually guarantees that anyone in the immediate vicinity becomes convinced that I am quite possibly rabid. I am also prone to mood swings, pouting, and sassy back-talk.

See what I mean? Thirteen-year-old girl.

Hard. I want to be the bigger person, I really do, but sometimes it just so HARD.

It is extremely important to me (and me alone) that we not have clutter on the dining room table. Ever. I barely tolerate dinner plates on there. To my mind, dining room table clutter is the hallmark of complete anarchy. Therefore, I aim to make my home happy by terrorizing any family member foolish enough to besmirch the blessedly empty plane of the tabletop. Anything left out will broadcast its repulsiveness in my face until I question their love for me and then passive-aggressively act like it’s no big deal until I can pull it out of my arsenal of resentment and use it to prove a point on how they have wronged me. You might call this “playing the martyr.” I call it “strategy.”

Harm. I want to be known as one of those laid-back, devil-may-care, unflappable types but that is simply not my nature. You’d have better success teaching my dog to dance.

I think I may have to hang up “role model” and aim a little bit lower. I’m thinking “just do no harm.”

Our son recently received a drum set because my husband and I are insane. He, as eleven year olds are prone to do, was banging away on it in what might someday sound a little bit like music. Maybe.

Our daughter, a nine year old twinkle with a sparkle in her eye and love in her heart for all creation, drew herself up ramrod straight, threw a hand on her hip, and said sternly and with no END of exasperation in a cunningly (yet chillingly) perfect rendition of ME “my ONLY QUIET TIME and you have to START with that!”

He responded by sharing with her his opinion of her musical critique. Shockingly, he wasn’t entirely flattering to her. (That may be a little bit - okay a whole lot - of “me” too).

She huffed her breath and exclaimed: “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything AT ALL!” and punctuated her last two proclamations of peace with a swift punch squarely to her brother’s arm.

Apparently, a right hook is a heck of a lot “nicer” than verbal abuse.

Our eyes met, role model to recipients: he, she, and I.

Then we all three rolled our eyes and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Yeah. I know. They really should apologize, but what can I do? Their mama obviously didn’t raise them right either.