"MOOOMMM!" "Mom!?" "MMMOOOOMMM?" "MOM?"

Don’t judge me. I recently looked at my husband and confessed, “I’m ignoring them.” I can’t help it, it was the end of a long week and I just needed a break from the countless, seemingly endless string of questions and requests. I truly feel like we are raising good, smart, solidly kind children but I worry about their need for me to intervene in their lives. Brian and I recently heard John Rosemond speak at our school and he assured us that children today or not in any way genetically or emotionally different from children 50 years ago. If this is true, my 9-year-old daughter is the same, typical third grader that I was in 1983. Thinking back, I was insanely resourceful, especially when it came to bird-dogging my parents.

Here’s the scenario:

“Bon soir, La Cuisine, may I help you?”

“Yes, hello sir. I need to find one of your diners. There’s an issue at home and I need to speak with her.”

“Oui, Madame. Who can I find for you?”

“Her name is Elaine Forstall. She’s tall and thin with straight shoulder-length blonde hair. Tonight, she has on a gold and turquoise peacock print dress, it has a jewel neck and drop waist, three-quarter length ruched sleeves. She’s with her husband, Rick. He has salt-and-pepper hair. He has on a white button down shirt, no tie, and a grey suede sport coat. I think they are dinning with two other couples.”

“Oui Madame. I think I see her. I will get her for you.”

**wait**wait**wait**

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Melanie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering, when are you coming home?”

I had mad skills. With a phone and white pages in hand, I could make just about anything happen. I had the communication skills at 9 to be a CIA operative and yet sometimes my kids get stumped opening a single serving pack of Sweet Tarts. How is this possible? No one taught me how to do this. No one ever sat me down to discuss the finer points of stalking people. I was driven enough and I just did it.

My parents fondly named my skill the ‘Mel-A-Phone’ knowing that they could never go too far without me finding them. They really were never safe. While I certainly don’t condone the idea of constant invasion of parental privacy, I give my 9-year-old self kudos for having the drive to get shit done.

So, what’s my plan for my own kids? I’ve decided that I am no longer helping. Nope. I have to step away from some things. As mothers, we are often stretched way too thin and we can't possibly be everything to everyone. I have a life to live, too, and honestly, I deserve a break from doing it all.

So my position now, as my kids grow is that everyone can tie their own shoes, so please by all means tie them. Everyone can get dressed on their own, I’m not needed. Can't find something? Look for it. No one in my house has a weight-lift restriction which means everyone can pick up their own belongings and put them where they belong. I am not needed for this task. If you can’t open an item on your own, the likelihood is that you don’t really need it. I bet you big bucks that if you were really hungry you would figure out a way to get that cheese wrapper open. Look again, look harder, and look one more time. You do not need me.

But you do need me.

Come to me for hugs. Come to me for snuggles. Come to me and ask questions about life and tell me about your day. Come to me when you are scared, happy, lonely, or sad. (Not bored, don’t come to me when you are bored. I cannot help bored.) Come to me with excitement or worry. Lay your fears at my feet and I will wipe away your tears. Come to me to laugh. Ask me to play with you. I will love you ultimately forever. Come to me for encouragement. Come to me for a reminder of the beautiful soul you are and how much you are truly loved.