This is the third day in a row I have growled at my five year old. Not so much growling like a wolf, though my rage-y animal side wanted to rip something open with my teeth. Luckily it was a twice baked almond croissant and not anyone's throat. More growling demanding of swift action. Basically losing any semblance of cool I have. Which is not much to begin with as my high school cheerleading squad will tell you. 

And whilst driving like a greater short-nosed fruit bat out of Mordor to get to damnable zoo camp - which has a drop off "grace period" of five flipping minutes, elst you search the zoo for your grousing child's group of campers - I realized, not for the first time, that there must be a better way. Why must every morning start with Mommy trying to find her calm? And every evening end with something alcohol imbued?

To save you time and money, I've gone ahead and read every book and article on parenting out there, and guess what? I'm doing it wrong. Totally and completely wrong. And so, probably, are you. All of our children are destined to be sociopathic axe murdering materialistic narcissists who leave us languishing in nursing homes be-decked with bunk beds the moment we retire. Just so you can be prepared and all. 

According to one theory, I should let my daughter go to zoo camp sans shoes so she can experience "natural consequences." Problem being her natural consequences impinge on the entire class. Not to mention would get me reported to CPS. Besides which, she could give a naked mole rat's arse if she doesn't have shoes. It would be unique at first, then it would be something she could complain about. For the rest of her life. 

Another theory says I should just let her be "unschooled" and go throughout her day as she wishes - she's a kid! Barefoot is wonderful - look at the Aborigines! Childhood is so fleeting! She will learn all about science and reading and social dynamics and math just by being her! 'Course, if I let her "find herself" all day, it would involve binge watching My Little Pony Friendship is Magic. And Mommy would die a little. 

F-that, says the Tiger Mom. She should have been up, dressed, eaten and practiced her violin three times by the time we left the house. Zoo camp? For sissies. Quantum Robotics Chess camp. And she should take the city bus to get there.

Oh, come now, there's a middle ground, right? What about the "good enough mother?" Ah, the illusive unicorn of all parenting. Ultimately, most mothers are the good-enough mother, trying our damnedest to care for our kids, trying to hold it together, and trying not to lose ourselves in the process. But the good-enough mother isn't celebrated. Perfect Pintrest Cupcake Mom, sure, but me in my second-day yoga pants, greasy ponytail, harried frown lines and goldfish filled lunchbox Mom? Yeah, not so much.

And you know what? There's nothing wrong with any of these parenting models. Hell, there's nothing wrong with Perfect Pintrest Cupcake Mom. What's wrong is that the collective We have decided to judge each other - and more importantly ourselves - by an impossible scale. When our kids drive us to growling - or wanting to fill our pockets with rocks and walk into a river ala Virginia Woolf - the important thing to remember is that we are OK. And OK is great. We are allowed to mess up and apologize. Allowed to make kick-ass cupcakes. Allowed to never ever make kick-ass cupcakes. Allowed to need some alone time. Allowed to let binge watching Dinosaur Train happen so Mommy can make dinner. Or check her email. Or shower. Or just sit and have more than one complete thought.

What's wrong is that we keep telling ourselves we're doing it wrong. 

And you're not. I'm not. We are the parents we are. We love our children and we are doing the best we can. The last thing we need is internalized shame in our parenting. The last thing we need is another article telling us the "best" way to raise our kids. You are the best way. You.

So what am I going to do tomorrow morning? When shoes are not on and whining ensues? I will say this, in paraphrase of Stuart Smalley: I'm good enough, I'm strong enough, and by God I don't give a naked mole rat's arse who doesn't like me. I like me. My kids like me. Even if I growl. And that is enough. 

I am mere two hours away from heading into a bonafide ghost hunt. 
It's research. 
I am hoping my pants stays dry, among other things. What I don't do for my readers... 
People often ask me if I do research for my books - especially for The Realm  as it's set in the 1500's. And yes, I did and do quite a bit. I'm a bit of a history fanatic, so I don't mind it, though, I will admit some research is more fun than others.

Take Gerard Butler, for instance. I spent many hours watching way too many poorly done rom-coms, a really good Shakespeare, a heart rending indie, a Guy Ritchie movie, and way too many poorly done action films. Not that you care, but the guy can actually act if he is allowed to do more than blow things up and read inane dialog. As I'm sure he or his agent reads my blog, you gotta do some more period pieces, buddy. You were born for it. Git your handsome arse on Game of Thrones or something, k? 

Why did I watch all these movies? Because William, the king in Heirs & Spares looks just like him and kinda sounds like him in my head. And I'm not a guy. I wanted to see what men would have other men say. So I "researched." To which my husband rolls his eyes. Do we really have to watch Olympus Has Fallen? Yes. We do. Twice. It's for work.
But tonight? Above and beyond, people. Above and beyond.

Another book I'm writing at the moment, tentatively titled "A Ghost's Story," is from the point of view of a ghost. She died in 2004 and is bored out of her mind. But since I only know spooky childhood urban legends about ghosts that involve teenagers making out and claws, or somebody's Aunt Margie who's farm house was haunted, I need to research all things ghost. 

And here's the kicker. My ghost story isn't even scary. Since the narrator in the story is the ghost, and unlike Nicole Kidman and Bruce Willis, she know she's dead, there's no freaky bumps in the night. But here I go to the hinterlands of Seattle to lock myself in a house with five ghost hunters and any number of spooky specters. For you. Oh, ok, and maybe for a good story at cocktail parties. 

Stay tuned next week to see if I ever return from beyond the beyond. In the meantime, someone get ahold of Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd. I may need some help.