Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference

The Ermba Bombeck conference sells out ridiculously quickly here in Dayton, so in an attempt  to wiggle my way in the door for free, I've submitted to their writing conference.  I usually submit under the humor category, but this year I submitted under the human interest category.  Here it is:

Grilled Cheese and Gershwin

            -Rebecca Rine

There’s no tangible gauge for how well you’re doing as a parent—no meter that points to Awesome or You’ve Got to be Kidding Me and no bumper sticker that asks How’s my driving? accompanied with a 1-800 number.

I was recently listening to Gershwin’s An American in Paris at the dinner table with my 5- and 3-year olds.  I cranked it up as the various instruments made their way into the mix, thinking this would be a great time to sneak in a music lesson.  My kids nibbled on their grilled cheese, slurped their milk, and wiped their mouths on their sleeves even though I hound them daily not to do so. I pointed out the bassoon, and we all agreed it sort of sounds like a duck.  I taught them the word legato when the music was smooth.

They stood up on their chairs and began to sway their heads and raise their greasy hands to conduct the music, and emotion swelled up in my throat. I made my way to the kitchen where I wept, and I wasn’t even sure why.  The beauty of this Gershwin piece has always moved me, but come on, crying?   As I muffled my cries in a dirty dish towel next to a sink full of dishes, the reason occurred to me.

Time paused, and my life came into precision focus. I’m often paralyzed by the unknown of the future and whether I’m raising my kids well enough to become strong adults, but while listening to classical music and watching them, I realized THIS is it.  This grilled cheese, Gershwin and greasy fingers is IT. These days aren’t merely space fillers until they walk down the aisle with cap and gown.  These seemingly ordinary snippets of life are just that—life. This is the performance. The endless questions, the building of forts, the telling of knock-knock jokes that make no sense at all—these are the glorious imperfect masterpieces that are shaping who they are and will be.

Perhaps the sheer pressure of that added to my weeping.

I hit sour notes all the time in motherhood and take shortcuts when I wish I had more time to reach perfection, but my kids seem to be forgiving of these flaws in my performance. One day they might find themselves making grilled cheese for the twelve thousandth time for their kids and it will occur to them—Yikes, this isn’t easy.  Then they will have seen behind the curtain where the self-doubting, thankless guesswork of parenting lurks that comes with no guarantees. Maybe then they will look back with wisdom and thank me, and I will whole- heartedly answer, “It was my pleasure.”