What have I been teaching?

I read a lot, and I like to read fiction. I know lots of people (and am related to many of them) who read Important Books. Heavy non-fiction about economics and politics and history. Classic fiction that appears on “greatest books ever written” lists. Self-help books. Philosophy. Psychology. New fiction touted by on-line book clubs as a story that will make you think hard, or reassess your life, or challenge you to do something.

I don’t read most of that. I like my books to be an escape from life, not an examination of it. I like mysteries, thrillers, spy novels and historical fiction. I might occasionally throw in something that is supposed to be good for me, but most of my choices are (as my husband once said) brain candy. I’m okay with that. But lately, I’ve noticed something in many of these stories–the heroic main characters generally know a lot about a lot of things, and often they learned it from their moms.

Uh oh. My youngest son turned 18 last week. That means that all three of my sons are (technically) adults. And while they all are kind, generous and fun young men (a little mom bragging there), my time of teaching them is pretty much over. And if the trends I am noticing in my chosen reading material are any sign, I did not teach them enough.

This is not about who they are–my sons are wonderful human beings and I love them endlessly. It’s about whether I met the mark as a mother or not, and how too often I feel like I failed. I didn’t make them read all the books they are supposed to read, or force them to play all (or in some cases, any) of the sports they should know, or teach them how to bake bread (although my youngest long has been the designated family chocolate chip cookie maker, and perhaps that’s more important anyway). Despite my best efforts, they don’t immediately write thank you notes for gifts they’ve received; they sometimes just leave dirty dishes in the sink instead of the dishwasher; and I don’t want to know how often their sheets get changed.

But beyond those things, according to the books I’ve been reading, perhaps I also should have been teaching them how to escape from zip ties around their wrists or pick the lock on handcuffs (both of which tasks apparently are pretty easy according to those spy books). I didn’t teach my sons krav maga or any other methods of self defense (unless you count “I’m rubber and you’re glue”). I didn’t push them to become gourmet cooks, published authors (except for Middle Guy’s poem published in second grade), or marathoners. I did not teach them how to start companies, or not-for-profits, or neighborhood book clubs. Why didn’t I teach them more? Um, maybe because I don’t know how to do those things. How did these fictional moms learn so much?

Rather than beating myself up for what I didn’t teach them, I have decided to focus on what my sons did learn. They learned that you need to take care of work obligations (school, housekeeping, personal hygiene) but you also need to find time for fun. They learned to make time for friends and family but also to take time for oneself. They have good knowledge of basic life skills–how to do laundry, how to unclog a toilet, that shopping at Aldi saves lots of money on groceries. Maybe I taught them these things, and maybe these skills were learned in spite of me, but either way I am proud of the men they are becoming.

I also remind myself that the reason I’m reading fiction is because, well, it’s fiction. It’s hard enough to avoid comparing myself to all the amazingly successful women I count as friends–I certainly shouldn’t compare myself to the fictional moms who raise their sons to fight terminators or save the world from giant asteroids. (OK, those are movie references, but I like fictional movies best too.) And while my sons deserve all the credit for the amazing people they are, I like to think that maybe a little bit of their brightness reflects back on me. Even if I didn’t teach them how to survive the zombie apocalypse.