LIke most four-year-olds, my son Monkey loves super heroes, especially the ones that don't wear underwear over their clothes. (Sorry Superman) He idolizes super heroes, he talks about their superpowers and even has a super-powered imaginary watch that lets him see things mere mortals can't. Last week, as I helped Monkey stir the sticky cookie batter we were preparing, he said, "Mama, by helping me, you're giving me your powers to make me stronger." Monkey's comment made me smile and made me think he was onto something. 

Maybe I, and all moms, are superheroes. After all, I can lift strollers over mountains of snow, carry my weight in groceries and heal an ouchie in seconds. I wake up the second before my children call me from their beds and I swear I can hear my child's cry from across town. I may be slowing down as a runner, but no one sprints faster than me when I see Munchkin heading towards a street on a scooter. At any moment I can tell my children (and husband) the exact location of a missing item. 

But motherly superpowers go beyond radar vision and physical feats. After all, the heroic thing about superheroes isn't just their special powers but their morals. Kids don't just learn from what I teach them from a book, but by watching who I am between washing dishes, sorting laundry and traipsing around town. When I open doors for others or give up my seat up on the train, my children learn to be kind. When I look up a new word in Spanish, they realize I'm not afraid to say, "I don't know. Let me find out." When I help Monkey persevere while completing challenging homework, he learns to be persistent. When I let the kids try things on their own, they learn I have faith in them. When I ask that they give their teary sibling a hug, they learn sympathy. 

If one of my superpowers is raising my children to be good citizens and thoughtful neighbors, another is to use our powers to help others. Maybe the reason I'm tired at night is because, like Monkey said, I give my powers to my children. I help them when they're tired by tugging their scooters along. I lift Munchkin up high so that she can see something new out the window. I carry the children's backpacks so that they may dance on their walk home. I let them "help" me clean so that they may learn responsibility, even if they leave a bigger mess behind. I know I'm doing the right thing when my children share their powers with me by helping me unload the dishwasher and carry groceries. 

It's draining to keep up with my energetic mini superheroes and to give them the attention they deserve with the patience that they need. But as the three of us trek through the snow and build forts on the couch, we all benefit from the sharing of powers. For a few minutes here and there, I can visualize the world through Monkey's powerful watch and see that we can accomplish more and have more fun together than we can apart. Super powers activated!

I've been at this parenting thing for almost five years. In these five years I've discovered that parenting of any sort is challenging. Whether at home with the kids or working full-time, I've made a thousand decisions for my children from what they should eat to how to keep them safe. Every time I've made those decisions I've made them with the knowledge I had on hand and with the best of intentions, but my plans often went awry. When my son was tackling his friends too frequently or my daughter was throwing food too often, I blamed myself. When my newborn was fussy or my toddler not talking "enough," I doubted my parenting. Over the years, I've witnessed one mother after another do the same and blame herself for whatever may not be going as planned. 

I've realized, however, that some of these "failures" are just beyond my control. As much as I want my kids to behave like saints, my kids have their own needs and desires and will, probably, not act like saints, but like children. When my babies were crying more than usual, it wasn't me they were upset about, but an upset stomach or a bad dream. Every time I see angst on a parents face caused by the latest phase of a child's development, I want to lean over, put my hand on their shoulder and say, "It's not your fault." It's not. Parenting is not a simple formula where what you want is what you get from yourself or your children. There is a lot of hard work and a lot of luck. So if you're stressed about what you're doing wrong, lean in and listen carefully.

When your newborn is fussy for no identifiable reason, it's not your fault.
When your child isn't sleeping through the night, it's not your fault.
When your child is having trouble potty-training, it's not your fault.
When your toddler is biting other kids, it's not your fault.
When you fret you're not making enough milk, it's not your fault
When you've had a miscarriage, it's not your fault
When you're having trouble conceiving, it's not your fault
When you are having trouble balancing work and children, it's not your fault
When you are going crazy being home full time, it's not your fault

I'm not absolving parents of their responsibilities--such as disciplining their children and being aware of negative dynamics--but I am absolving parents of guilt.  Children evolve and our job is to assist them along their journey with the best information we have and with all the love we possess. If you, dear mother, are going to use the word "fault" then you need to think about "intent." You cannot be blamed for something you did not intend to happen. 

Next time your child behaves inexplicably or your parenting doesn't go smoothly. Please take a breath, tell yourself you are doing your best and remember, it's not your fault.

Growing up in Central Ohio, I loved snow days. Oh, the reprieve they gave us from daily life and homework! My twin sister Pamela and I would go into the backyard and build snowmen or make snow angels. We'd bring in cups of snow to turn into snow ice cream and sometimes cap off our day by drinking Swiss Miss hot chocolate with those tiny marshmallows. 

Now that I have kids of my own--one who is school aged--I wonder how my working parents felt about those snow days. Once we reached a certain age, Pamela and I stayed home alone when school was closed, but I imagine that they had to stay home in the early days. Did they cheer the fact they had a day off of work or cry at the thought of being home with two rambunctious kids for a whole day. 

I wonder about these things because this winter has been brutal for parents with school-aged children. After being sucked into an arctic vortex (read: below-freezing temperatures for days) we've been hit with heavy snowfall several times. As a result, Monkey has had multiple snow days and we only just started February. I love being home with my kids and, if I can be spared the long walk to school through slush and traffic, I'm usually excited. But after having so many school days cut short and cancelled, days with both kids home are starting to drive me batty. 

There is something about snow days that, without the bookends of drop-off and pick-up, make the days feel endless. Even if I maximize the morning snuggle time and slowly make snow-day-waffles, the day starts to seem long by 10am. By then my kids have been up for  more than three hours and the entire day stretches in front of us. 

My kids and I have baked cookies and chocolate truffle cupcakes, glazed carrots and shredded vegetables for green pancakes. I've had Monkey practice writing his numbers and alphabetize the letter cards. We've painted on paper, drawn on coloring books and decorated cookies. We've even brought out the scissors  and Elmer's glue, which are huge risks with a liability named, "Munchkin" walking around.

But after so many days off, no matter how Martha Stewart-y I am in the kitchen or how crafty I am in the living room, the kids start fighting and it drives me crazy.  At ages two and four, how much could the kids fight about ? It turns out that there is a lot to argue about. My two fight about who had the red car first and which plate of blueberries is theirs. One of them starts crying because the other won't take turns with the broom. Monkey builds elaborate train tracks and Munchkin wrecks them.  Munchkin wants to play the helicopter but Monkey says it's his so she's not allowed. On and on it goes about the most mundane things. 

On the frigid cold days, the kids couldn't even go outside to break up the monotony or the fighting. Theonly way to change the scenery was to let the kids go down to the lobby for a few minutes while praying that fights about pressing elevator buttons wouldn't escalate to tantrums or let them play in the hallway, while I prayed no crabby neighbor would emerge to complain. Either that or risk being judged by every adult in the street thinking, "That mom brought her children out in this weather! What was she thinking?" 

I did take the kids out yesterday in the heavy snow and I'll tell you what I was thinking. I thought, "Either I get out of the house and tire these children out, or we are all going to have a miserable day." Yesterday--which was when I meant to write this blog before school got cancelled--ended up being pleasant largely because we had playdates. No comment on the number of times I had to carry Munchkin in her stroller over gigantic stretches of unshoveled sidewalks, but at least we made it out.

As for that unwritten blog post, being trapped indoors means I have very limited opportunities to get any writing done or even have a few minutes of peace to myself. Any hopes of being productive on the computer are dashed after the tenth time Monkey asks me to play with him or Munchkin repeatedly pushes the keyboard buttons. On the bright side, since the kids have had so much time at home, they have finally mastered setting and clearing the table and have learned to wash dishes and load the dishwasher. Now if they could just do all my chores when school is cancelled--in between drawing, painting, baking and playing--we'd be on our way to a more harmonious snow day. That is until the kids start fighting about who gets to turn the dishwasher on.