I’m a hopeless disciplinarian.  I was walking my border collie around the neighborhood the other afternoon just as school buses were dropping off kids. Down the street come two boys maybe a couple of years apart. Two good Catholic boys. I could tell by the blue uniforms. The taller of the two reaches his driveway first. He shoulders his knapsack and wrangles two empty trashcans, placing the smaller one inside the larger and rolls them down the drive to the back of the house. His buddy walks on and I see they live next door. He too shoulders his backpack and maneuvers his two trashcans down his drive. While Millie sniffs the ground I marvel at this sight. Unasked, no prompting, they just did those chores efficiently and effectively.

            And I think of my son. My 20-year-old son. I’d asked him to take out the recycling last night. Okay, he said, when I go out, he said. He forgot. Now, if you ask him to do something he usually does it. Please walk the dog. He walks the dog. Please empty the dishwasher. He gets up and unloads the dishwasher. But I wish I didn’t always have to ask him. Yes, yes, yes, we’ve told him what his chores are, but….

            Okay, here’s another scenario. I’m sitting in my Weight Watchers meeting talking about my pitfalls. It’s usually late evening when I make my daughter’s lunch and that’s when I nibble. I lick the crunchy almond butter off the knife and munch on Stacy’s Naked Pita Chips.

            “How old is your daughter?” a woman snaps. She’s nearly pounced on me.

            “Seventeen,” I cringe, knowing full well what’s coming. And sure enough….

            “Seventeen! By the time my daughter was seven I had her making her own lunches. You shouldn’t be making your daughter’s lunches.”

            “She’s old enough to make her own lunches!” another woman chimes in. Before you know it three women are on my case, going on about this asinine parenting issue, which wasn’t the whole point of why I was talking in the first place.

            Finally I blurted, “I do it because it makes her feel loved!”

            Silence. The whole room is silent. My face is hot.

            The three women look shamefaced. Yeah, I think to myself.

            What they don’t understand is that I’d do anything to show my daughter I love her....I almost killed her once. I was insane with rage. I almost lost it.

That was years ago. Another lifetime ago, and though my daughter says she doesn’t remember it, I do. And yes, I make her lunches every night feeling a smidgeon of guilt, but mostly just love. I love her to bits. I see nothing wrong with making my children feel loved. Because once I had a very hard time doing that.

            I think how my son says, “I love you, too, ma,” and gives me a heartfelt hug every now and then. I think how my daughter says, as I’m passing her room, “Mom, can we talk?” and then tells me about troubles she has with her boyfriend. I think about the time so long ago when I hated being a mother, when I believed I had no love to give my children. I thank God for how much has changed, how much we have all healed.

            And I think, so what? So I’m a lousy disciplinarian, but my son has a steady job and a great work ethic, and my daughter doesn’t think the college scene of going out to drink three nights a week is all that appealing. She wants to do a gap year instead and help people, and I think, this is good. This is very, very good.

            So yes, I look at those two obedient and thoughtful Catholic boys with envy and chagrin, and then sigh and smile knowing I got some things right. The things that really count.