I Won't Do This Story Justice.

It's true that I’ve never doubted myself more than I have over the last eighteen months. Mainly because I have no idea what I’m doing. I think I’ve always been pretty clear on this point. But when it comes to mothering, I’m an idiot. Partially because I never actually paid attention to the details of this gig prior to being smack in the middle of it, up to my sleep-deprived eyeballs in poo. So I learn as I go. And being American upper middle class, I learned early on that I needed two kinds of car seats, bilingual learning toys, certified organic flannel sleep sacks, a 46-piece essential child safety kit and lots of Purell. For starters.

Because kids need lots of stuff. And they come with lots of rules.

Most of these thousands of specific must-dos are completely unspoken and you have to find them...like hidden clues...as you go, from friends, from books, from the people who work at the specialty stores, and from other mothers who sneer at you as they indirectly point out how they are doing it so so so much better than you. Usually these moms also lost all their baby weight in the first three months. And they shower. Everyday. And other good things too.

I realize that on these kinds of topics, I’m always linking to Liz, because living where she does, she is up to her brains in sanctimommies and competimommies and justplainassrudemommies. And sure, in Texas (and all over the South) we have our fair share too. Our versions are just thinking it. Not actually saying it out loud. Because of course that would be bad manners.

But whether anyone is expressing these rules directly or not, they’re there. And believe you me, there are some very specific best-for-the-child ways to breast not bottle feed, sleep train, play group, and so on and so on exponentially and snowballing. It's a lot to do. And it's a lot to do right.

So, a few weeks ago, as I have overdocumented, I was walking around New York, thinking about the Hurricane and imagining what it would be like to have him there. Especially when I ran across some kids about his age…in a class at the museum, ice skating in the park, listening intently during story hour (the story hour in French, of course). They were all properly dressed, properly stimulated, and I was once again feeling like I wasn’t doing it right. I mean the Hurricane doesn’t properly listen in any language. And he definitely doesn’t know how to ice skate. He’s obviously not getting what he needs from us. Because we’re obviously lame arse hillbilly slackers. Who spit.

And so as I was wandering around spitting, I was thinking about this and all the stuff at FAO and all the gear and cute things at all the boutiques and all the language development courses and flash cards and music classes and gym options and fleece and training potties and organic pillows, the next thing I knew, it was after midnight, and the HcQ was STARVING! and needed food immediately if not before. When we passed a McDonald’s.

So while he was ordering midnight fast food, I was hanging back, watching this child moving across the way. A child in McDonald’s. At midnight. Just kind of wandering around. He was about four or maybe five. He had his coat on, and he was making his way around the store, playing with the plants and being relatively content, considering there are no toys, games or developmentally appropriate puzzles anywhere to be found. At midnight. At McDonald’s.

Not too far away was a woman about my age, or maybe a bit younger. She was cleaning the mirrors along the walls. Wearing her McDonald's uniform. Seemingly okay to be there. She and the boy joked in Spanish. She talked to him; he smiled. She played with him; he giggled and giggled. She kissed him on the head; he gave her a hug. She was obviously his mom, and he was obviously and completely loved. At work with her. At McDonalds. At midnight. Sleep patterns be damned.

And I'll never forget the two of them. Because that night they gave me a lovely gift. A reminder that there is more than one way to parent. And that every family has its own way and its own story.

I just hope ours has that much love in it.