It’s only now, as my youngest child has reached adulthood, that I am  finally able to assess the full impact of my parenting mistakes. And the good news that I want to share is that it doesn’t seem to have had any lasting negative effect. In fact, there is some evidence that my “mistakes” have actually resulted in positive outcomes.

I have spent countless hours over the years tormenting myself because I wasn’t like the other moms. You know the ones I mean. The ones who never raise their voice, who have never sworn in their child’s presence (nor… gasp… actually directed an invective at their child). Who have never grabbed them by the arm, shook them, and yes, I admit it, spanked them. Who’ve never had an out of body experience; watching and listening to themselves as they screamed at a decibel level that could peel paint off a wall.

Those mom’s also didn’t have toilets that would have looked at home in a service station. Or dust bunnies the size of a small country hiding under the fridge. They  never threw a fruit rollup at their kid on the way to a soccer game and counted it as a vegetable. Nor can they claim to be responsible for the huge profit margin  McDonald’s Restaurant realized during the boom years of 1991- 2003.

I am quite certain that somewhere in my neighborhood there were children who actually rose up quietly off the couch, brushed their teeth, said a prayer and quietly climbed into bed for a solid 10 hours of sleep each night. Whereas I seem to have spent most of my children’s lifetime rocking them to sleep, lying down with them till they (or more likely I) fell asleep, and dragging them kicking and screaming to the bedroom, confiscating flashlights, and threatening any number of punishments in an effort to get the lights out before 11 pm. (Mrs. Chartier, Lucas seems very tired in the afternoons. Yeah? Well maybe you could let him take a nap ’cause I give up trying to get him to go to bed).

I let them watch the Simpsons ’cause it was on at 5 pm and the TV was too far away from the kitchen where I was frantically putting supper together for me to monitor it. I let them watch Seinfeld every night for an entire summer because it came on at 1000 PM and for the first time in years they would cuddle up on the couch with me to watch and the boys would laugh together instead of punching each other out.

Because I worked, and especially because I worked at a job that I was passionate about but that periodically demanded a lot of time from me, I gave them what felt like too much independence. I was wracked with guilt because I felt they were on their own too much. And I know for certain that they were left alone at a younger age than many of their classmates.

So where are the positives?

They did their own laundry. They did housework (yes, they needed a list and usually some threat of violence but they both knew how to wield a vacuum). Lucas can cook anything from a full turkey dinner to a gourmet feast complete with a scratch made chocolate cake.

Yes, they were loud and annoying and they learned from the master how to raise their voices. But they also learned how to demand what they needed, to stick to their principles, to call people on bad behavior.

While I didn’t appreciate it when the fast wit and quick retorts were directed at me, the wry sense of humor they honed on Seinfeld and Simpson’s made them good company, interesting conversationalists and excellent debaters.

While I recognize that I was likely an even worse mother than usual when I was taking my Masters degree (as was their father when he took his) they seem to have grasped the value of education and that achieving goals requires hard work.

Lucas has successfully navigated his first semester in the College of Engineering. We had our concerns about him tackling school so soon after the death of his brother. And even more concerns when we discovered that he had a seven class load to manage. But he navigated his way through with his usual pragmatic ease and with all seven finals now complete, it does indeed appear that he has passed every class.

As I watched him study (holed up in his room, living in his PJ’s, rarely bathing) I was reminded of a weekend when he was about 9 or 10 and he had once again procrastinated on a major school assignment. I think I spent the entire weekend yelling at him. By 10 pm Sunday night I was completely finished with him. I pronounced that he was a lazy shit, grounded him for the rest of his life, told him I hoped he failed and stomped off to bed. Nice. Yet another parenting success story for my scrapbook. About an hour later he arrived at my bedside for a hug. Still damp and sweet smelling from the shower, he wrapped his arms around me and said “You know mom, the important thing is that I am done. It’s not like the prince rescues the princess from the fire breathing dragon two weeks in advance. He does it in the knick of time and it’s the fact that he does it that’s important”.

How did I get so blessed?

I still suffer too much guilt over my past parenting indiscretions to feel like I can take any credit for how well they both turned out. However I do take comfort in knowing that they seem to have turned out pretty perfect despite their mother’s failings.

The one true lesson I have learned? As long as you love them, really… the rest is insignificant.