Practice Makes Perfect

It's the end of a hectic Tuesday, and I find myself alone, late at night, basking in the privilege of a quiet mind and deep pondering. Here's what I've come up with: Motherhood is a job for experts, but one that is given to rookies.

There's a reason there isn't a handbook on how to be a mother. Too much of that specific information might prove to be the end of the human race as we know it. Still, any time I meet a seasoned mother, I can't help but glean some tips from her. Sure, my oldest is pushing eleven. I still feel like a rookie.

When I went to the hospital to have Baby Five, the nurse said, "Five children! So you're an expert now." To which I replied, "Five Children! Now I know for certain I have no idea what I'm doing."

I have, however, complied a list of a few rules that a mother-in-training can follow in order to be just a little more prepared for the rigors of motherhood. They are as follows:

Only engage in conversations about burps, poop, nap time, fruit snacks, Disney princesses, and trains.


Throw your pillow away. Also your napkin. Buy a shirt that says, "Please use my sleeves for whatever part of you is moist."


Volunteer at the local zoo and diaper a monkey with diarrhea twelve times per day. You may only put on the new diaper when the monkey is swinging in the trees or running away from you.


Sleep in an s curve, clinging to the side of your bed.


Learn to "get ready" for the day in 3.5 minutes. 


Spend a whole afternoon in the car, listening to someone else's favorite songs and movies. You are awarded extra points if you do not scream at any time. 


Line up five pairs of shoes by your front door. Anytime you want to go somewhere, tie each pair.


If you are sitting down, a twenty-five pound bag of wiggly flour with gas should occupy your lap. If you are standing, it should occupy your arms.

Be the first to volunteer when anyone needs to be wiped.

Relearn your times tables. You think you have them mastered. You don't. 

When you have a hurt toe, it should be purposefully bumped at least seven times each day for the duration of its healing process.


Stand in a public restroom and clap and cheer wildly anytime anyone goes potty in the potty. 


Answer any question you hear with a lucid, appropriate response--no matter the time of day. 


Only eat hot dinners cold. Luke warm is cheating.


Arrive at any event thirty minutes early and sit in the seat nearest the back door.


Become well versed in children's literature. Learn to end any sentence with a rhyme.


Laugh heartily and sincerely at any joke--even if the punch line is missing.


Become proficient at making a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in 15 seconds.


Exchange all expensive dinner ware for Ikea plastic ware. Only eat in the company of people with preferences for plate colors that are not clean or that don't exist.


Wash the laundry for the entire neighborhood and the boys' basketball team, and have it ready to go by 8 am.


Become comfortable with fellow diners not wearing all their clothes at dinner. 


Offer to brush the teeth of five different people--keeping their toothbrushes straight--and fall asleep before you can brush and floss your own.


Make five different science fair projects. Each must be eligible to win first place. 


Pour sour milk down the front of you and let it air dry. Don't start lowing. 

Mind you, I'm not saying you'll be a pro if you master these scenarios. I'm just saying that when you sit down to your hot dinner, with your fork almost to your mouth, and someone yells, "I'm all done! Come wipe me!", nobody can smirk and call you a rookie.

If they do, you can bet they don't have any children.