Holiday parenting is damn hard

You don't need to justify it

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On to today’s post!

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Tonight is the Christmas concert at my older son's school - but I won't be there. I am double-booked for tonight, so my husband is taking over the parenting duties and will video the off-key pa-rum-pum-pum-pums for me.

I've spent weeks practicing the correct knee slaps with my son to the tempo of the Little Drummer Boy. The fully assembled teacher gift sits on my counter - complete with some lovely chocolates, cute pens (who doesn't love a good pen?), and custom writing pads. All the things for the "coloring station" and the "craft station" for tomorrow's class party are ready- somehow, I'm the "Room Mom" despite being wholly unqualified for the position.

I've done A LOT to be ready for the next few weeks, but because I'll miss the concert tonight, I'm suffering from the most wasted of emotions - mom guilt. It's one thing to intellectualize that all our roles require not being everything and everywhere simultaneously - but it's another to feel like it’s alright to miss out sometimes.

I always imagined a "Room Mom" as the crafty, creative, organized parent in the class - this is not me. My Mom was the "Room Mom" throughout my childhood. She was the Girl Scout leader, the Boy Scout Troop mom, the Junior League cookbook committee member, and the book fair chairwoman. She was the MOMMINGEST mom. She volunteered, drove to all the sports, made all the snacks, baked everything, and saw every pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

I am not a mom mom. I'm just trying to juggle it all without setting anything on fire, literally or figuratively.

Tomorrow is my Mom's birthday - a big one ending with a "0." She's throwing herself a party in another state, and I can't be there (see above). She says that it's okay, and she understands.

Mom just laughed when I called her frantically to "check in" while running into Hobby Lobby for the fourth time to FIND THE RIGHT DAMN SPARKLE MARKERS for the coloring station. My Mom knows what this is like; she's been here.

I told her how I used to love Little Drummer Boy and Carol of the Bells, and now that I have practiced those freaking drummer boy knee slaps and heard the tune of Carol of the Bells, bocked like a chicken, from my children for the last few weeks I don't care if I never hear either song again. She reminded me of the time I asked her what her favorite tune was, Pachelbel's Canon, so that I could play it on my recorder for her . . . over and over. Spoiler alert - it's not her favorite song anymore.

I remember all the years that my Mom made the holidays so special. There were always the most thoughtful gifts, notes, baked goods, and meals. Somehow my parents managed to pull together a massive Christmas party open house on Christmas Eve every year - I have no idea how they did it.

When she hears the stories of my current parenting exploits, I think my Mom enjoys them even more because I now newly appreciate how much work all this is. I can't imagine how much of herself she put into momming, as I try to meet only a fraction of what she did for us. And she did it all without Amazon or the internet. How?

But here's the thing - my Mom also remembers her parenting from an adult's perspective. I only remember the cakes and the cookies. She remembers the cakes that fell and the cookies that burned. I remember the Ultimate Room Mom and troop leader; she recalls the exhaustion and things that fell through the cracks. I remember the magic, but she remembers the magic AND the work.

I was texting with another mom-friend from my son's class who asked about the concert tonight. I told her I wouldn't make it and was double booked; I started down the train of trying to explain why I wouldn't be there. She texted me the most liberating thing back: "You don't need to justify it." She's right. I don't.

My son is five. He probably won't remember this specific concert in a year, and if he does, it will be a nice memory he has with his Dad. There are a million other things I'm getting right. There are crafts and colors for the party and a nice gift for his teacher. He has those pa-rum-pum-pum-pum knee slaps NAILED.

We see the cakes that fall and the cookies that burn. The kids don't. They see us show up in the best way we can. Someday, when we're having those big birthdays that end in "0," our kids will see what we did for them. It's enough. You don't need to justify it.

Also, Happy Birthday, Mom.