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Not Every Mom Can Be June Cleaver

By Tracy Petering

Today I gave my dog a bath. Not a huge feat if my dog were a Gigi or a Fifi. However, my dog is a writhing, licking, 65–pound yellow lab. He can spend the entire afternoon in a pond of water filled with green slime and duck trailings, but his tail goes down and he looks as though he has lost his best friend when you give him a bath. And he never takes a bath alone. He shares his experience with his people.

As I was giving him a bath, I remembered all the times when I bathed my children who met me with the same lackluster appreciation for a clean body. Bath time was at the end of the day, a day that involved meals, shopping, babysitters, my job and playtime. I would think to myself how glad I was that I was young because age would rob me of the strength and patience I needed to make it through bath time. And then I would think how lucky I was to be a mother.

I grew up in the '50s and '60s where my role models of motherhood were on TV. June Cleaver had all the answers and could solve any family problem in less than 30 minutes. Her hair was never out of place, her house was immaculate, her pearls never left her neck and she always cooked the perfect family meal. I wanted to be a mom like her. I thought how wonderful it would be to have those perfect children and perfect husband living on the perfect block in the perfect little house.

Then reality struck. In order to make ends meet, I worked a full–time job most of the time my children were growing up. That meant I had less than 30 minutes to solve all their problems. I never wore pearls and my hairdo usually consisted of a hastily fastened ponytail. Sometimes, after a long day, I would wonder if I was being a good mother. Were strangers raising my children? Was I not giving them the best of me?

My answer came from my daughter a few years ago. She was recalling a story about the first time I stood up for her. We were living in Oklahoma and it was winter. We lived on a cattle ranch, of sorts. Her bus would stop on the outside of the cattle guard and she would have to cross it on foot. It was very slippery and I was afraid she would fall through the bars and hurt herself. I went to the school and talked to anyone who would listen about the danger my child was facing and asked if they could do anything about it. It took a few days, and I talked to more than a few people and finally won my fight. My daughter remembers that not only did the bus driver go over the cattle guard, he delivered her to the front door. She was impressed and felt special. To her, I was a good mother. I was a mother who would fight the good fight to protect her children. I was a mother who was never too busy or too tired to take care of her needs.

Did I fulfill my dream of being June Cleaver? No. She doesn't exist. There is no such place as Perfect and no such thing as a perfect mother. I did what I could do in the time allotted me. I put my children first. I read to them; I punished them; I bathed them. Other people didn't raise my children. I raised my children. I gave them values and love. I taught them respect––for themselves and others. My children felt I raised them well. They felt loved and needed.

I wore a macaroni necklace instead of pearls and sometimes we had fast food for dinner. My house was clean enough to be healthy...just barely. My children were happy and bright and curious. Now that they are grown, they tell me that I did a good job. And, really, isn't that all that matters?