Race to nowhere - the secret to good parenting

Are there any medals for knowing your parenting theory?

I am an excellent mother: calm, patient and understanding. I am all of these things, at least, theoretically.

In theory, my blood pressure doesn’t rise in the slightest when Beta is cheerfully scribbling on his legs with permanent marker right before a party, because I am (ideally) too busy admiring his creative use of a common household object.

Or when Beti refuses to take any naps because she needs to master the downward dog pose, I am (hypothetically) the kind of mom who recognises her child’s tenacity and independent spirit.

In practice though I morph into a shriller edition of myself, more likely to be both snippy and snappy than to celebrate her kids being, you know, kids.

In the same way, theoretically, at least, I know that every child is different and there’s no race or award in parenting.

But last week, when I took Beta to a Mom & Kids class, I was utterly out of orbit. I loved watching my boy carefully and methodically inspect each offering in the play area.

The sight of his skinny body and the hair that flops over one eye as he crouched by a bookshelf made me swell with maternal tenderness, the feeling pushing almost physically at my ribs like the kids did when they were still in my uterus.

Now they take up all the space in my head, instead.

As for the class itself — I kind of hated it.

When Circle Time began and every one gathered around to clap and sing through a whole stream of kiddy rhymes, I was hopeful. This is his zone, I thought to myself.

He’s so smart, this Beta, he knows all these songs and loves anything to do with alphabets and numbers.

I thought he would shine. But I see now, that these groups and classes are sometimes more about teaching children restraint rather than enjoyment.

“It’s not your turn!” the teacher sang out when Beta answered excitedly which animal should come next in Old McDonald had A Farm for the fourth time in a row.

When he wouldn’t get on the trampoline during Gym Time, the Play Leader remarked that Beta was behind his peers as far as gross motor skills went, I felt like there was a race and I had somehow failed.

“I’m sure he’ll catch up with a little help!” the Play Leader added kindly.

But I felt like shouting, “He is a bit behind, yes, but he’s also not getting on right now because he’s absorbed in counting how many sides it has! Also, ask him 8x7! Go on, just ask him!”

I bring this up because I think this class more or less helped bring into focus a huge gap between me, the theoretical Mom, and me, the real life Mom.

I felt as unprepared as Beta, who was picking flowers while all the other kids got fitted with helmets and shoulder pads, readying for the race.

And as they won medals in the Jump on Stuff race and the Taking Turns in Circle Time race, there we were, dorkily reciting the multiplication tables.

The thing is, I do believe my son’s gentleness and his intellectual interests are wonderful qualities, and I am reassured by the fact that they are shared with his Baba.

When I watched him inspect the trampoline and confirm quietly to himself, “It’s an octagon” or carefully tidy up the beanbags before we left, I could suddenly picture Hums doing the exact same thing — at home, hanging up my party clothes after I’d dumped them on the chair, patiently explaining to me the make up of Norway’s constitution when I asked him about it, out of the blue.

But some days, because I know how often they will be misunderstood or overlooked or rebuked, I just want to pack them up on a boat — along with the fierce and resilient Beti — and set sail, off to a place where it will be just us, the salty sea and the star-scattered sky.

Or maybe I just want a little more space in the world for everyone — for the kids to be interested in whatever they are interested in, for no one to expect the exact same behavior from everyone else, for the men and women of tomorrow to interact or not interact as they wish.

A mother can hope and dream. Meanwhile, if there’s a race going on anywhere for How Long Can A Four-Year-Old Live on Grapes, let me know. We’ll clinch that.

Hiba Masood is a stay-at-home mother to 3-year-old Beta and 7-month-old Beti. Writing about parenting affords her time away from actually doing it.

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Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, October 14^th, 2012.

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