In honor of Mother’s Day, and, more specifically, motherhood – the greatest job you’ll ever love and  sometimes still fall short in. … Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms, keep on keeping on, and, most importantly, keep on laughing at yourself:

I’m banking on the fact that my indulgent, but unabashedly honest, temper tantrum  last night in front of my son and husband, while disgusting, is at least relatable.  And, I’m banking on the fact that my follow up performance from this Mother’s Day morning is the sign of a healthy, though perhaps slightly dysfunctional, mom.

I wince when I think of my crestfallen son’s little face as he watched me carry on last night, wailing about when I’d get the chance to sit on the couch and zone out for a mental break.

The details are fuzzy, but I do recall my tantrum involved some stomping and over-exaggerated slamming of various kitchen items, as I bitched through the evening clean up and bedtime routine.  There may have been some yelling too – and possibly an overly-dramatic proclamation to the effect that perhaps in 18 years I might be able to sit on the couch and watch a television program and finally –finally - rest my mind.

All this nonsense performed much to the horror of both my seven year old and husband, a husband who sat there in his recliner, mouth agape, attention momentarily turned away from his beloved Sportscenter.  To be fair, he was taking a much-deserved break after a day’s worth of household projects.  But the problem was, why wasn’t I?

It wasn’t my finest moment, certainly not something to wail on and on about in front of my children.  The truth be told, Billy could have cared less, too engaged in his five year old shenanigans to worry over some “minor” family discourse.  But Eddie, my sweet, faithful pal, was another story.

And, on the night before Mother’s Day, the very day when the stars annually align and all the men and children in your life revere you, kowtowing to your every whim…theoretically, at least.  The shame of it!

So, I guess I’m also hoping  that it’s not so horrible if I followed last night’s performance this morning with a cleverly-executed plan to plop the boys in front of the television for a movie and shutter myself in my bedroom for a café mocha and writing time on my far-too-often neglected blog.

While other moms were likely out brunching with their families, I, instead, choose to put my headphones on full blast, loud enough to drown out Emilio Estevez yelling at his Mighty Ducks, and the occasional scream match my boys seemed to resurrect every couple of minutes.

The truth is, the break was long overdue, and, unfortunately, the meltdown too.

My world rises and falls around my family.  If I do one meaningful thing in my life, I hope it is to raise happy, well-adjusted boys who grow up as loving, respectful and functioning members of society.  If so, I will have done my job here on earth.  It’s a simple truth.

Still, with the chaos and general busyness of life – and despite loving every moment with my boys – I have craved a break for quite some time, a break I rarely take – even when I have the opportunity.

Most moms can relate; it’s the mother-balance conundrum.

So, when you look at the bigger picture, this behavior – even the occasional and inappropriate meltdown  – are normal, perhaps even dysfunctionally healthy.  Possibly, the only thing healthier would be to actually take more breaks when those occasional opportunities arise in the first place.  Surely, it’s something to strive towards.

In the meantime, these few  moments of selfishness are a lifeboat meant to maintain any semblance of sanity.  Better yet, perhaps they are not even selfish at all.  Moms, after all, are notorious for actually being too selfless.

Best mom ever? Maybe not.  But, that’s okay.  I’ll settle for great mom, usually.

Sometimes, my kids can snooker me something fierce. Although, I like to think I’m always “on,” when they do catch me operating on autopilot, they pounce. I admit it.

Today, for a few brief, victorious moments, Billy made me his puppet.

It started like any other Sunday afternoon, preparing for end-of-the-weekend errands with a little five-year-old in tow. I was spending way too much of a chunk of time inside the house trying to corral my lollygagging, happy-go-lucky, oblivious boy, and eventually I, admittedly, got a little irritated.

“Come on Billy! This has to stop! Let’s go! Nooooow!” I may also have used the two-beat clap for effect.

I most definitely startled him back to reality.

My sweet and rambunctious little boy flashed his sad eyes my way and mumbled, “Were you always like this?”

I admit, he made me stop in my tracks. My heart clenched. “What? What do you mean, honey?”

“Well, did you always yell? Before us? … Because you make me scared and sad.”

There are no words for these moments.

I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to his words. Was my boy showing wisdom far beyond his years? Or was he yanking my chain?

My knee-jerk response was to feel the former, and I launched into full-out explanation mode, desperately fighting to clear my name, and campaigning to regain his affections. Like a classic sucker, guilt briefly consumed me.

But, thankfully, logic finally prevailed. I had hollered for Billy to speed it up because I was, frankly, tired of repeatedly trying to herd him out of the house.

I’m a yeller, but not a screamer – and about as scary, and cuddly, as the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. I parent with affection mixed with firmness, and cuddle my kids every chance I get. Sometimes, I fear, I’m too soft. Regardless, they know they are loved and cared for. At some point, the kid’s got to learn how good he really has it, I think to myself.

Or, did he already know? ..Wait a minute, what just happened? And, that’s when it hit me: My sweet little love bug was playing me. I’d been snookered!

He had me exactly where he wanted me. I was his toy. Maybe it was the flash of whimsy in his eyes that finally made me realize that my little baby was smarter than he appeared.

My yelling did not make him sad. It made him annoyed, hassled, and, generally, miffed.

Miffed enough to try to turn the tables…

And, so, for a few split seconds today, I was stricken with guilt about over-zealous haranguing, the kind that simply comes with the territory of being a parent. Small potatoes in the land of greater evils.

The irrefutable truth is that kids have a knack for inducing guilt. They know how to get under our skin and take control before they know how to read and write. Claiming minor victories like seeing a parent quiver at their whim provides more amusement and satisfaction than even their most cherished toy.

The opportunities for folly are endless. It must be in their genes. They are creative – and clever.

Meltdowns from Billy upon being dropped off at daycare instantly stop the second I leave his sight. Sometimes I’ve gotten caught in his trap and have spent the morning commute in a state of anxiety and despair. But, I’m getting wiser to his ways. Eddie’s tantrums over struggles with homework mystify his teacher, who watches him confidently problem solve the same curriculum in the classroom. To his dismay, I’ve recently caught on to his whiny ways. And, stomach pains of an immeasurable magnitude instantly vanish upon the presentation of a fun alternative to whatever had originally induced the phantom illness. (This one, I’ve learned to master after countless stunts by both).

Yet, they still persist to run their scams.

What my kids don’t count on is that, despite a healthy dose of Irish guilt, always ready to be deployed from the coves of my conscience, their mom is one tough nut, and as sharp as a tack.

Once in a while, they may win a game, like Billy did today. But, I’ll always win the match.

They may be good, but I’m better.

I’m usually pretty rational when it comes to parenting, but, sometimes, the very love and attachment you have for your kids can be what does you in.

Once in a while, with no prior warning, my neurosis escapes before my rational alter ego can contain it. That happened today, when my little guy clued me in once and for all that he has no intention of remaining within the loving embrace of his mommy’s nest once he is old enough to hit the road.

That, of course, sounds crazy. He is only five after all. But, all too often, parents learn the bitter lesson that time slips by without notice. He’ll be grown before I know it.

Still, why am I worrying about this? How could he possibly know what he intends to do? How could I know what he intends to do?

I know because my “Wild Bill,” my sweet little love bug, is exactly like me.

I spent my youth loudly counting the days until it was time to leave for college. Billy began the same refrain when he was only three. I dreamed of becoming a free spirited cross-country vagabond, eventually settling in California to pursue an acting career, or in the alternative, charting overseas adventures and pursuing careers plagued with a lifetime of intrigue and danger. Billy often talks of motorcycling off into the sunset, traveling to far off places. No matter the scenario, his sight is always set someplace beyond the horizon. The more extraordinary and precarious the adventure, the better.

To my parent’s credit, they did not balk when they realized I was serious about my wild plans. A short stint in a studio apartment in Washington D.C. was followed by a longer stint overseas in Budapest, Hungary. They did not flinch when I told them that the reason I wanted to study in Budapest was to experience getting off a plane and knowing neither the language nor a soul. I imagined the very occasional postcard or collect call from the countries I visited as I wandered across Europe was enough contact to please them.

And, most importantly, they did not protest when I began searching for far off career opportunities upon college graduation. Looking at it now, from a parent’s perspective, I’m sure that they must have feared they were losing their girl.

Years later, when I finally settled close to home, the choice was thoroughly mine. They never tried to stop me or, worse, guilt me into staying.

…And now, I’m the grown up with the adventurous child. Will I fare as well? Will I do the right thing by Billy?

On most days, I embrace the notion that Billy is like me. When he is old enough to choose, I do not want to guilt him into staying either. I imagine him launching an endless series of quite possibly dangerous but terrifically exciting escapades and, perhaps, never actually settling anywhere near the nest at all. Though I’ll miss him terribly if he leaves, I hope he satisfies his every curiosity and fills his soul.

So, today, when I temporarily lost my sense, it was a surprise even to me.

It started like any other afternoon walk, with Billy by my side, coaching me as I narrated another tale of his wild adventures in far off lands. On this day, the setting was the California Gold Rush, and when his adventure ended with a train ride back home, he protested. “No mommy, now I go somewhere else. I don’t go home. I never go home.”

And, just like that, his imaginary story took a very real and serious turn.

Before I could rationalize a more appropriate response, I blanched…and laid down the guilt.

It’s true. I planted a seed I never thought, or intended, to plant. I tried to guilt my sweet little five-year-old into abandoning his carefree wandering ways and staying with his mom. I know it’s awful.

In reality, there is no more important job than to help prepare a child for all that life can send his way, and then set him off to live it well.

Still, “send me somewhere else mom..I never go home,” rang in my ears. I felt dizzy, cold with sweat, my heart racing. Hot tears stung my eyes. …My lord, it’s true, my baby boy will not be contained.

For that split second, it was as if we were not mother and loving child, walking down the neighborhood streets hand-in-hand, but rather a mom saying goodbye to a grown boy chomping at the bit to be set free. And rather than rejoicing in setting him free, my first impulse was to hold him back.

And so, I said it. “No, no Billy, you come home. Don’t you want to be back with mommy, daddy and Eddie? Mommy needs you.”

Thankfully, I quickly recovered and masked my momentary lapse. “Oh okaaaay, go,” I joked. And off the story went, onto his next fantastic imaginary journey, this time across the ocean.

Eddie, our seven year old self-professed homebody called it years ago, when Billy was but a toddler. With his arms around us, he looked adoringly at little Bill, and sighed contently. “Hey mommy and daddy, when Billy gets older and moves out, it will just be the three of us again.”

Maybe so…though you never really do know. By then, however, I hope I will be ready for anything.