By Linda Leary

To my knowledge there is no degree for mothering--no degree called M.O.M. (Masters of Mothering). If there were, there might even be specialty degrees, such as, B.O.M.B. (Bachelors of Mothering Badly). And although these degrees don't really exist, most of us might have thought at times that we had probably earned and deserved a B.O.M.B. degree in raising our future "saviors of the world." How did we manage to do that when we tried to be so careful NOT to make the same mistakes with our own children that our parents had made with us?

It works this way: We often remember our parents' mistakes. We still feel them keenly, so we watch for ways NOT to do them to our children. And our efforts usually succeed, too. But while we focus on avoiding our parents' mistakes, we may miss the brand new ones we come up with on our own--sometimes wonderful, amazing mistakes our parents never even thought of! Then as the years pass, our little darlings grow up and tell us (if we are fortunate enough to be allowed into their confidence) that they are determined NOT to repeat the parenting mistakes we made with them! We think to ourselves, "Where have I heard this before?" Indeed, the process always seems to come full circle. Like life, it rolls on in spite of anyone's efforts to be perfect. Yet somehow after all the battles are over, we still end up loving each other in spite of everything. So there's hope for us B.O.M.B.s. We can wait for our second crack at child rearing. And, yes, it does come around in the form of--you guessed it--grandchildren.

Aside from M.O.M. and B.O.M.B. degrees, another path open to mothers--maybe at night school, after the kids are in bed—is the H.U.M.O.R. degree (Humorous Understanding of Mothering Outside the Rules). This sheepskin is usually given from above to the lucky ones who come willingly--or not so willingly--into the state known as "parenthood." The subject matter consists of very flexible guidelines, some prayer or meditation, and lots of common sense.

You may well ask why a parent would need more training. Isn't successfully persuading a toddler to use the potty or keeping them in the cart at the grocery store enough of an achievement for any mother? Well, maybe. But through all the struggles that seem so serious at the time--not to mention the pain of the birthing process, itself--some mothers forget how really humorous raising children can be. Instead, with a grim devotion, we take parenting classes, read books, and consult grandmothers for advice. But how can second-hand knowledge overcome personality differences between our kids and us? How can it soften memories of past slights or even traumas? How can it solve all the problems that arise throughout the day?

It seems that no matter how much we try to stay on top of the parenting game, we are not guaranteed to know all the answers or make all the right decisions regarding our kids. Somewhere along the path, we have to put the books down and rely on our own intuition, faulty or not. Some days we'll lose the parenting game but other days we'll win--and sometimes, we'll even win big.

To bask in those hard-won moments of glory, we might sit down for as much as 30 seconds (if we have that much time). Yes, we'll even munch some chocolate, guilt-free. (Didn't we already sacrifice our great thighs to become a mother?) It's at those moments we realize the true meaning of the H.U.M.O.R. degree. It qualifies us to smile, giggle, and laugh--to regain a sense of perspective on our children and ourselves. Should we worry if the produce man in the grocery store catches us laughing at one of those moments? Is he a mother? Laughing at our situations and ourselves is a right we have earned the hard way. The produce man may raise his eyebrows, but other mothers will understand. Your laughter will hearten them all and remind them of their own H.U.M.O.R. degrees.

I remember many lessons from my own parenting education. The tale that follows is one of them, taken from the life of Linda L. Leary, B.O.M.B., who graduated a sense of H.U.M.O.R. My 16-year-old daughter was over one hour late for her midnight curfew. By that time, I could claim many witnesses to my cry, "Once I know she is OK and not injured, I'm going to kill her, myself!" Then, well past 1 a.m., I heard a car door slam. I raced down the stairs to wait for her and posed myself in the dramatic lighting of the foyer, my hands on my hips. I did not need to plan my scolding. The look on my face demanded, "How could you betray my trust?" Yes, this time I would put a stop to her crazy behavior for good!

The door opened, and in walked my daughter. Seeing me, she stopped short and widened her eyes in surprise. "Aha!" I thought. "Gotcha!" Two of her girlfriends followed her in, but they nearly ran into her from behind, as she stood cemented to the floor. Soon all three had stopped in their tracks, as they stared at me with open mouths for what seemed like an unnaturally long time. Ever have one of those moments where reality shifts horribly, your life passes before your eyes, and you wish you could just evaporate into thin air? A trap door opening to swallow you would also work well. You see, I was 46 at the time and just beginning to experience some pre-menopausal symptoms (another humorous chapter in the lives of women). One of my wacky friends had told me to try taping a natural stone to my forehead at bedtime to see if it might eliminate night sweats. At the very least, she promised I would have a more restful sleep and vivid dreams. (I was hoping for Mel Gibson as a Scottish rebel leader.) I was also wearing a bright pink, jersey nightshirt. Sewn onto the chest was a large, flocked lamb. Hanging in my closet, it looked a little like those "poodle skirts" that girls used to wear in the '50s. (The ensemble was a gift from my mother who still thought of me as 12 years old.)

I can only imagine what my daughter's friends must have thought when they saw me in the foyer! Before them stood a woman of a dignified age, dressed in a short "lambie-pie" nightshirt, hair sticking out at all angles, with a large, iridescent stone taped to her forehead, and the words "Where have you been?" dying on her lips. No one spoke for a moment. Recovering way better than I ever could, my daughter turned to her friends and said, "This is my mother, who appears to have forgotten to take her medication. She is very angry, so you guys should go now." The girls turned towards the door and left as quickly as they had come in. On their way down the walk, they stumbled occasionally from the strain of trying to suppress their giggles at my expense. Unfortunately, with her friends gone, I found myself alone with my daughter. This girl--the same one who had just arrived home one-and-a-half hours past curfew--squinted her eyes at me in a withering look. Several silent moments passed--way too many, in my book--before she exclaimed, "Oh, Mom! How could you have embarrassed me like that in front of my friends? And what is THAT THING on your forehead?"

That thing? Oh God! I reached up and felt the stone I had taped on hours before. After I apologized profusely for appearing weird, she made me suffer for only a few more minutes, forgave me, and said that we should just forget about it. Then she went upstairs to bed, leaving me in the foyer to consider what had just happened and marvel at how quickly a role reversal can take place.

Years later, my daughter and I laughed about this and a lot of other events that had been taken much too seriously as she was growing up. And predictably, she has described to me many things that she intends to do when she becomes a mother that will surely be superior to what I did. Naturally, I can hardly wait to hear what her children say about her parenting skills! I only see more and more circles. My daughter and I still love each other even after all our comical episodes. We have also forgiven each other for being human. I now eagerly look forward to my first grandchild so I can show him or her all the little ways I know to drive a mother nuts. I can't wait!

Copyright © 2004 Linda Leary. All rights reserved worldwide.