The magic decoder ring of motherhood or supermom is a myth

I'm a voracious reader of fiction (and an increasing portion of non-fiction). I'm not particularly envious of novelists because I've never had an illusion that I could write the great American novel. But when I read a truly excellent non-fiction essay, I exclaim or mutter "I wish I'd written that," with a definite twinge of envy. In the middle of my current fiction read (House Rules by Jodi Picoult) is this wonderful "essay" written by the heroine, who is a newspaper columnist. I want to capture it in its entirety because I doubt I'd find it anywhere on the web to link to. (Thankfully, I type pretty fast.) It definitely made me exclaim -- I wish I'd written that!

When did they stop putting toys in cereal boxes?

When I was little, I remember wandering the cereal aisle (which surely is as American a phenomenon as fireworks on the Fourth of July) and picking my breakfast food based on what the reward was: a Frisbee with the Trix rabbit's face emblazoned on the front. Holographic stickers with the Lucky Charms leprechaun. A mystery decoder wheel. I could suffer through raisin bran for a month if it meant I got a magic ring at the end.

I cannot admit this out loud. In the first place, we are expected to be supermoms these days, instead of admitting that we have flaws. It is tempting to believe that all mothers wake up feeling fresh every morning, never raise their voices, only cook with organic food, and are equally at ease with the CEO and the PTA.

Here's the secret: Those mothers don't exist. Most of us -- even if we'd never confess -- are suffering through the raisin bran in the hopes of a glimpse of that magic ring.

I look very good on paper. I have a family, and I write a newspaper column. In real life, I have to pick superglue out of the carpet, rarely remember to defrost dinner, and plan to have BECAUSE I SAID SO engraved on my tombstone.

Real mothers wonder why experts who write for Parents and Good Housekeeping -- and, dare I say it, the Burlington Free Press -- seem to have their acts together all the time when they themselves can barely keep their heads above the stormy seas of parenthood.

Real mothers don't just listen with humble embarrassment to the elderly lady who offers unsolicited advice in the checkout line when a child is throwing a tantrum. We take the child, dump him the lady's cart, and say "Great. Maybe you can do a better job."

Real mothers know that it's okay to eat cold pizza for breakfast.

Real mothers admit it is easier to fail at this job than to succeed.

If parenting is the box of raisin bran, then real mothers know the ratio of flakes to fun is severely imbalanced. For every moment that your child confides in you, or tells you he loves you, or does something unprompted to protect his bother that you happen to witness, there are many more moments of chaos, error, and self-doubt.

Real mothers may not speak the heresy, but they sometimes secretly wish they'd chosen something for breakfast other than this endless cereal.

Real mothers worry that other mothers will find the magic ring, whereas they'll be looking and looking for ages.

Rest easy, real mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.

Well said, Jodi! (And it's a great book, by the way. I'm 3/4 through it and will write more about it when I finish.) BTW, if you're looking for this quote in the book, it's on page 156 in the hardcover.