Cracking Under The Pressure
by Michele Sbrana

My kids don't have what it takes. I thought I had them well trained, but when push came to shove they crumbled…they choked…they cracked under the pressure. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh. But hear me out and then you be the judge.
I took my boys, ages seven and nine, to see their pediatrician for their annual physical exam. They are old enough by now to know that this annual pilgrimage is not merely medical. It is, more importantly, an opportunity to display to the pediatrician what a genius mother I am. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm certain that there is a monthly summit of all pediatricians wherein they sit around getting massages and manicures and writing report cards on all the mommies that come through their offices.

But any hope of being considered for the Genius Mother of the Year award began to unravel as soon as the doctor asked Casey, who had just turned seven years old, what grade he was in. Now I realize Summer had just ended, all right? At that point, no kid really knows what grade he is in. But saying 5th when you've just finished Kindergarten; well, I'm beginning to not look so hot.

And then the good doctor had the nerve to ask him about his diet. Now, F.Y.I., I work in the field of nutrition. I know more about the amazing benefits of grape seed extract, finding the right balance between the omega 3, 6 and 9 oils, and where to buy soy taco mix than you can shake a gardenburger at. So when Casey responds by saying, "Oh, we have ice cream and popsicles all the time,"…well, are you beginning to feel my pain? I mean, I have worked oh so diligently to make ice cream a special treat. Desserts are not expected in our home. Once a week, on Friday nights, we'll go out as a family and share a cone. And okay, yes, we do have popsicles. But they are homemade… with 100% juice…and it's organic! But what does the doctor hear? Ice cream and popsicles all the time!" At this point I'm scanning the room for a tongue depressor to stick in my precious child's mouth.

The doctor then proceeds to ask about his television habits. "Do you watch TV?" Casey answers with a resounding "Oh, yes--all the time." (Again, with the 'all the time.' ) "Can you watch whatever you want whenever you want?" "Oh sure." Great. On my wall at home is a beautifully framed diploma from the University of California at Berkeley announcing to the world that I earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in child development with an emphasis in the effects of television on children. When I get home, I will run it though the shredder.

And then she ask about chores. "Do you help around the house? Do you have things you are supposed to do each day like clean up your toys or put your clothes in the laundry hamper?" (At this point, I am convinced she is writing a book entitled The Worst Mommies I Have Ever Known.) Casey responds, "Well, my Daddy works in a church." What? What did he say? What does that have to do with the line of questioning? I had a real opportunity to score a point here. On our refrigerator we have, perfectly laminated, with adorable fonts, on even cuter Creative Memory paper, a CHORE CHART. Remember, Casey? Remember how it says that you set the table, clean the bathroom, and water the roses while your brother takes out the trash, vacuums the family room and waters the backyard pots? Remember the daily tasks that you have been doing since you learned to walk: making your bed, clearing your plate, keeping the floor in your room visible? Remember how each Tuesday I teach you one new household task, like running the washing machine, the finer points of loading a dishwasher, or how to boil the perfect egg? (Need I mention that it's organic?) No, apparently you don't. Because all you can say is, "My Dad works in a church." I guess all we do is sit around and eat ice cream and popsicles watching R rated movies on HBO….all the time!

By now, I'm exhausted from subtly trying to coach him without sounding like an attorney (which I may need after she writes her book!). Thankfully, when she asks if he wears a helmet when he rides his bike, he answers "Yes." Frankly, I expected him to say "What's a helmet?" Or worse, "What's a bike?"

His older brother, Riley, was next up for cross-examination. As luck would have it, she stepped out of the room for a moment ( probably to tell the nurses to turn on the intercom), so I had 30 seconds to quiz him about our address, phone number, all the sports he has ever played, his blood type, how many fat grams he is allowed in a day, and how to program the VCR. Riley, as it turns out, was a pretty good witness…I mean patient. I think I might have scored some extra credit when he told her that I could be pretty mean because I refused to allow Nintendo, Play Station or Game Boy to even enter our house.

When we left the office the boys had both received a clean bill of health. One more year before we'd be coming back. Plenty of time. Tutoring begins tomorrow.

© Michele Sbrana

Michele Sbrana, Mom to Riley and Casey, is a freelance writer and health consultant. She is passionate about supporting and encouraging Moms and can be reached at Msbrana@aol.com

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