 | Pictured: Paris Mom of Preschoolers on the town with dashing French tour guide and a few grandmothers When we moved to Paris last year and joined a new church, I knew I needed to get involved. I’m an introvert, and if I don’t join something I’ll just slink in and out on Sundays and never meet anybody. Also I wanted to help out. |
I also knew the main thing they’d want me for: child care. Problem is, I’m not interested in children. I raised mine. They are terrific. I did my time.
I heard an announcement that said the Moms of Preschoolers support group was looking for mentor moms. Just the moms, no kids involved--perfect! They needed some old moms who’d come in and give them words of wisdom, pearls of advice, gems of hope. I didn’t have any of that. All I had were common sense and smart remarks, but no other mentor moms showed up, so I got the job.
As a bonus, there were snacks.
I should point out that momming did not come naturally to me. I never cared about kids until my biological alarm clock clanged abruptly, then I popped out three kids and the clanging stopped. I love my kids more than chocolate, but they baffled me. What saved my neck was having great friends with older kids. All they had were common sense and smart remarks, too, but it made all the difference.
For example, both grandmothers thought my children were picky eaters, bordering on malnourished. The Chinese grandmother fretted that they were fussy about Chinese food, although frankly, I didn’t want any of that fish and eggplant stir-fry either. The Texan granny worried that they wouldn’t eat down-home cooking, but California kids just didn’t see the appeal of mushy red beans with chunks of fat floating in them. I worried that my kids weren’t eating right, even though the doctor said they were fine. I read something like What to Expect When You’re Stumped, and it said my kids were fine, too. Still, I worried. I turned to my friends.
My friend Kay said, “Trevor ate nothing but corn for a year and he’s fine.”
Boom. I was free.
Sometimes, that’s all we need. We need a real, live person who’s been through it.
Then there was the time I was upset about my firstborn going off to college, and my big sister said, “You’ve always know her as a child; now, you can get to know her as an adult.”
It made a world of difference.
And there was the time I was confused as to why all my children were radically different when I had raised them all the same way, and I said to my friend, “Parenting is a crapshoot,” and she said, “No, every child has a different mother.”
That gave me a whole new perspective.
Listening to my friends did me more good than all those parenting books I read, and frankly, all the videos were a waste of time. Ditto for the seminars.
Gradually, with the help of my friends, I grew into the mom job. I could put dinner on the table in 10 minutes. I could teach a kid to drive, negotiate curfews and fights, check homework, host youth group, revoke privileges, soothe broken hearts, toilet train, change a diaper on an airplane, drive to the ER without hyperventilating, and smell trouble a mile away.
But, now that I’ve gotten good at this job, it’s just about over. I still have one teenager at home, but he’s pretty low-maintenance. It seemed a pity for all that mom experience to fall by the wayside. Being a Mentor Mom could be just the ticket. The Moms of Preschoolers didn’t need hardcore parenting, they just needed somebody who’d walked that road before. I hoped.
At the first meeting, I was impressed. These Paris Moms of Preschoolers are a real savvy bunch. They are smart, resourceful, multi-lingual expats, and most of them have lived abroad longer than me. A lot of them, or their spouses, are diplomats or work for international companies. Some of them are married, some are not. Some are young and doe-eyed, some are weathered and cynical. They all love their children fiercely and are commonly baffled by their behavior.
In the Friday meetings, we watch a video that deals with some issue I hadn’t thought about in years, like quality family time or de-cluttering or holiday stress. We discuss it and exchange ideas about how to handle tough situations. They never talk about curfews or sex or college apps or tattoos, but I like to throw those in once in a while just for giggles.
Even so, like most moms, they still need a little encouragement. During one of the first meetings I attended, instead of being insightful, the discussion spiraled downward to a hopeless point as they all despaired in the same direction. Silence fell in the room, and someone sighed. I knew they needed hope. I cleared my throat, and many pairs of bleary eyes looked toward me.
“Um, it gets better?”
After a beat, a burst of thank-yous and oh-that’s-so-good-to-hears came my way. Somebody sighed again, more of a “whew” than a “dang.”
That day, I only had common sense, no smart remarks. But it seemed to be what they needed.
I heard an announcement that said the Moms of Preschoolers support group was looking for mentor moms. Just the moms, no kids involved--perfect! They needed some old moms who’d come in and give them words of wisdom, pearls of advice, gems of hope. I didn’t have any of that. All I had were common sense and smart remarks, but no other mentor moms showed up, so I got the job.
As a bonus, there were snacks.
I should point out that momming did not come naturally to me. I never cared about kids until my biological alarm clock clanged abruptly, then I popped out three kids and the clanging stopped. I love my kids more than chocolate, but they baffled me. What saved my neck was having great friends with older kids. All they had were common sense and smart remarks, too, but it made all the difference.
For example, both grandmothers thought my children were picky eaters, bordering on malnourished. The Chinese grandmother fretted that they were fussy about Chinese food, although frankly, I didn’t want any of that fish and eggplant stir-fry either. The Texan granny worried that they wouldn’t eat down-home cooking, but California kids just didn’t see the appeal of mushy red beans with chunks of fat floating in them. I worried that my kids weren’t eating right, even though the doctor said they were fine. I read something like What to Expect When You’re Stumped, and it said my kids were fine, too. Still, I worried. I turned to my friends.
My friend Kay said, “Trevor ate nothing but corn for a year and he’s fine.”
Boom. I was free.
Sometimes, that’s all we need. We need a real, live person who’s been through it.
Then there was the time I was upset about my firstborn going off to college, and my big sister said, “You’ve always know her as a child; now, you can get to know her as an adult.”
It made a world of difference.
And there was the time I was confused as to why all my children were radically different when I had raised them all the same way, and I said to my friend, “Parenting is a crapshoot,” and she said, “No, every child has a different mother.”
That gave me a whole new perspective.
Listening to my friends did me more good than all those parenting books I read, and frankly, all the videos were a waste of time. Ditto for the seminars.
Gradually, with the help of my friends, I grew into the mom job. I could put dinner on the table in 10 minutes. I could teach a kid to drive, negotiate curfews and fights, check homework, host youth group, revoke privileges, soothe broken hearts, toilet train, change a diaper on an airplane, drive to the ER without hyperventilating, and smell trouble a mile away.
But, now that I’ve gotten good at this job, it’s just about over. I still have one teenager at home, but he’s pretty low-maintenance. It seemed a pity for all that mom experience to fall by the wayside. Being a Mentor Mom could be just the ticket. The Moms of Preschoolers didn’t need hardcore parenting, they just needed somebody who’d walked that road before. I hoped.
At the first meeting, I was impressed. These Paris Moms of Preschoolers are a real savvy bunch. They are smart, resourceful, multi-lingual expats, and most of them have lived abroad longer than me. A lot of them, or their spouses, are diplomats or work for international companies. Some of them are married, some are not. Some are young and doe-eyed, some are weathered and cynical. They all love their children fiercely and are commonly baffled by their behavior.
In the Friday meetings, we watch a video that deals with some issue I hadn’t thought about in years, like quality family time or de-cluttering or holiday stress. We discuss it and exchange ideas about how to handle tough situations. They never talk about curfews or sex or college apps or tattoos, but I like to throw those in once in a while just for giggles.
Even so, like most moms, they still need a little encouragement. During one of the first meetings I attended, instead of being insightful, the discussion spiraled downward to a hopeless point as they all despaired in the same direction. Silence fell in the room, and someone sighed. I knew they needed hope. I cleared my throat, and many pairs of bleary eyes looked toward me.
“Um, it gets better?”
After a beat, a burst of thank-yous and oh-that’s-so-good-to-hears came my way. Somebody sighed again, more of a “whew” than a “dang.”
That day, I only had common sense, no smart remarks. But it seemed to be what they needed.
How are you putting your unused mom skills to use? Have grandbabies shown up? Do you volunteer to read at library story time? Or are you too busy, skydiving or shearing your angora goats or learning Portuguese?
Let me know in the comments!
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Let me know in the comments!
PREVIOUS: Nice Will Get a Second Chance
NEXT: Date Night Just Got Better