Advice of the Mommy

Call me Mother of the Year.

For reasons I don't quite understand, I'm considered by a few friends as their Mommy Guru. Apparently, when they have children of their own, they plan on calling me for advice. While I confess I'm flattered, and realize this is mainly due to my been-there-done-that status, I must add that I am supremely unqualified for this accolade.

Motherhood is a continual surprise, and I'm a girl who doesn't always like surprises. Boomer still has some explaining to do about the whole sneaking in Evil Twin for the birthday thing, but that's another blog. I liked to plan ahead, to know where things are going. And then Peanut was born.

Just when I think I have Peanut figured out, his needs, his wants, his still massive objection to the potty (okay, still don't get that one), he confuses me once again. He goes through more mood swings than diapers. Today was no exception. He went from happy to have his sippy cup and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to cranky that I picking up on the toast craving to ditching said toast five minutes later to complete ecstasy because I got on the floor and played conductor of the train. It was the only time today I was in charge. I should mention that conductor gig was supplemented by belly scratches to Doggy Luke, who was most pleased by second-favorite human on his level and took full advantage.

How do I advise non-Mommy friends about this?

The answer: I don't. I'll be happy to offer all manner of advice about the best maternity clothes (don't worry, it isn't your butt that looks big) and labor (EPIDURAL!!!) but as for actual child rearing, they're on their own. I shall wait in the wings, laughing from experience as they explode on the latest what-my-child-did-now episode, reminisce, and know that my title has been passed on.

Call me Mother of the Year.