by M. Ranard


“Come fair children! Retrieve Kipling and Milton from thy Power Ranger backpacks. Let us recline on eighteenth century Gustavian daybeds to devour sweet literature in the library. No, Jean-Charles, not the west wing library. Alas, fumes remain strong in the west as the paint on ceiling frescoes dries still. This was what I thought motherhood would be like when I daydreamed about it as a teen.

I blame it on my parents. They preached good manners, proper grammar, and wrinkle-free wardrobes. Indeed, my father was a freak for creases down the ol’ Gloria Vanderbilts, and Mom chased after us with an acrylic hairbrush for saying “shut up” (oddly, “shut your trap!” earned only a glare).

So of course my 14-year-old self thought I could do it better. And baby I wanted more—a more dignified household, complete with a sophisticated manor in which Ivy League sons and daughters clamored for advice. Where classical ballerinas and polo players begged to visit the Louvre. Of handsome offspring arriving at the dinner table in Lacoste button-downs the tones of Mary Cassatt’s palette.

“Oh Mother! Would it be quite all right if I skipped Simon’s sleepover on the yacht? I do so wish to add flourish to my report on Emily Dickinson due in six weeks!”
A breeze would waft through the main villa’s north clerestory windows enhancing our home’s interior scent of Ivory soap and linen…

As it turns out, 1980 was a bad year for prognostication.

Those Izod-clad kids never showed up. And it seems unlikely my sons will ever play polo. Worse, they’d struggle to name a common interest between us, including Ivory soap. Dude—my kids are too lazy for soap.

Gone is the image of refined persons reclining with me as a gentle breeze kisses our faces enraptured by fine literature. Still, I have chosen to look at the positive aspects of my children’s less than royal behavior. For example:

Mahhhhhhhm! Outta axe spray.
A fine example of their mastery of American English—and a sexy-smart substitute for showering, as well.

Dude! Me and Colin BALLED it up today—we PONED.
Another excellent illustration of their superior grasp of current idiomatic expression. For those of you still clinging to 20th century speech, “pone” is gamer talk for “power own”.

Don’t EVER ask Obama to step aside!
This exemplifies a polite manner of threatening someone. Me, for example. Such as when I ask my eldest prince to clean his room.

This family sucks!
Another modern colloquialism that, roughly translated, means “My teen experience leaves much to be desired. I am very distressed, mom.”

The roast smells like butt.
Despite its richly expressive tone, this colorful turn of phrase still confounds me. I’m fairly sure I’d sport a cranial disfigurement from a certain hairbrush had I ever uttered it, but times change.

I do admit that my kids make my family of origin look like royals. But then, I too have lowered my standards with age. The OCD I inherited from my neatnick parents does not encompass ironing. In fact, my kids would likely mistake a steam iron for a waffle one, having never laid eyes on either appliance in person.

I also did away with the idea of family road trips in a vintage Jaguar (too cramped) and that equestrian arena (I don’t need anything else to smell like butt around here).

I have no idea when reality shattered my dreams, or when, exactly, I embraced it. I can only assume extreme exhaustion negated my desire for extreme perfection.

But hey, I ended-up with two boys who are totally slammin’ and alt-worthy.

And I’m still angling for the villa.

Michele Ranard is a professional counselor, academic tutor, and freelancer with a cheeky blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.