Oh, the battles we are bound to forever endure by unknowingly signing on that invisible dotted line. No papers come with the agreement, yet it is a contract, nonetheless -- legal and binding. We may not be aware of all it entails and our children may be grown before we know if we did it right, but one thing's for certain: they will always let us know what we're doing wrong. The law too, will intervene if you mess up too badly or too often, but unfortunately it's usually too late. Ultimately, parenthood is a heavenly contract between ourselves and God, our own conscience serving as judge and jury. It is, without a doubt, the greatest honor to be entrusted with another of God's kids, yet with every blessing there comes great responsibility. Too many selfish parents rebel at constant obligation and therefore miss the abundant wealth of joy and enlightenment little people offer. Many of us enter this sacred commitment self-assured we'll be better parents than our own, but the naked truth is that none of us know what we're doing until it's done. Hind-sight is 20/20 while the present is clouded by the cataracts and astigmatism of emotion. In all my relationships, I never feel I've done or said enough until the knot in my gut tells me I've gone too far. In trying to back up and rectify the situation, I cause more damage. I remind myself of one who accidently runs over something. Then realizing what I've done, guilt forces me to evaluate the damage, so I put the car in reverse and inadvertently run over it again.

Oh, the sacrifices we must make. Being a mother means never going to the bathroom alone again. You will always have an audience, as some unwritten law demands it. My son accompanies me to the restroom, without fail, stopping in the midst of play or cartoon if he has to. He wouldn't miss it for the world. My daughter still finds it necessary to tell me stories or ask questions while I sit on the throne, unable to wait just a few minutes for me to finish. Sometimes my husband even joins in on the fun and we have a family gathering right there in the bathroom, with me as the main attraction. I don't know if they enjoy the compromising position I'm in, or if it's because they have me cornered and I can't walk away.

I'm not modest or prudish about this natural bodily function, yet my son's need to escort me to the bathroom is one of the most frustrating events I face in daily life. It's bothersome because he acts as if I'm not really confined but merely resting. He asks me to look at something which is in another room, to repair some toy, or to find a misplaced item. If I've told him once, I've said it a thousand times, "When I get off the toilet." He also seems to believe that I need to be entertained while performing such a boring ritual. He will climb the door facing, leap from atop the dryer, flip over into the tub, and do karate moves on the vanity, all the while talking non-stop. Fortunately for me, he is extremely sensitive to odor. Therefore, if I am on the throne to contemplate the nation's state of affairs, my son won't stay in chambers. I foresee his future wife getting angry when he refuses to change their baby's diaper because the smell makes him gag. That child has been known to gag and nearly throw up from his own toxic aroma. One day, as I sat upon the porcelain throne planning social reform, I heard the little warrior calling out to me. I was unable to answer at that particular moment. I could hear him approaching by the sound of his voice moving closer. As he peeped into the bathroom, ready to barge in, seize the castle, and capture the queen, he abruptly stopped dead in his tracks. Noticing the wrinkled, slightly red and contorted expression on my face, he quickly evaluated the situation. Turning to retreat from the warning of certain combustion, I heard him call out as he ran down the hall, "Look out! She's about to blow!"

Strange things happen when we become parents that do not happen to adults without children. Even the most hip people transform into geeks and nerds, and become disgustingly stupid when their children reach adolescence. No matter how you swear to the contrary, somewhere along the way you will wake up to the startling fact that you have become your mother! My daughter has let me know in no uncertain terms that I am an extreme social embarrassment to her. She and her best friend recently informed me that I have "the mother syndrome". I just imagined it had something to do with being overly-protective and telling them to take an umbrella or be sure to wear a coat. But no, that's not it at all. It's actually more of a hideous crime than a disorder, although it is apparently the side-effect of some psychological dysfunction. I, like other mothers my age they have observed in public places, am guilty of wearing loafers with sweat pants! Expensive, name-brand sports shoes are obviously the proper foot attire, but I prefer the convenience of slip-ons. Easy on, easy off. It's a good thing they told me before I found myself arrested by the fashion police!

Motherhood obviously suits me well. I am Mother to all children everywhere, to my husband, friends and animals. I don't know how I got this job, but sometimes I wish I could resign. Everyone has a divine purpose and evidently God just created me to be a care-giver. I seem to emit high-frequency signals which alert -- and can only be heard by -- the demanding and needy from near and far. Or maybe it's the shoes. I take my child to the park, imagining a nice, peaceful rest under a shade tree. I might as well quit imagining that. Apparently, I am in the minority of mothers who actually watch their children. That means I end up babysitting, no matter where I go. I try not to, but I see children in distress and just because their own mothers aren't paying attention, I can't ignore it. Even in the absence of peril, I notice other children and smile at them. As a result of my strong maternal instincts, every child on the play ground looks to me for attention and approval. I've had four and five children at a time holding my hand, sitting next to me, and jumping up and down in my face, all yelling in unison, "Watch me! Watch me!" Not a one of these children is mine. I glance around, wondering where the parents of these children are, and more importantly, where my own son is!

I really don't see myself as being such a good mother, but I tend to be self-critical and exaggerate my shortcomings. Yet, I'm obviously just an old mother hen. All the children in my neighborhood know who to come to. They flock to my house for shelter, food, conversation, fairness and acceptance. They get on my nerves, but still my door -- and my heart -- is always open to children. Only occasionally does my son play at someone else's house because all the kids, my son included, would rather be here with me. We have the neighborhood gathering spot, which my child appreciates immensely.

I had such a satisfying and happy childhood that children now are to me like enchanting little fairies, sprinkling their magic dust upon my mind, bringing treasured memories to life. Children are not only my windows to the future, but mirrors which reflect my own happy past. I want every child to experience this time in their lives as I did: secure, content, and blissfully protected from the big, frightening evils the world contains. Children drive me crazy, but I still think they are the most wonderful people on earth. The angelic essence of divine perfection emanates from their sleeping faces, magically expelling the day's harsh frustrations. I am lulled into a peaceful state of bliss as I adore their nocturnal beauty and untarnished innocence. Upon awakening, the beastly nature of untamed jungles and the torments of hell itself are once again unleashed upon my quiet world of heavenly illusion. Morning has broken and I am faced with the resignation that pregnancy is actually the consequence of a crime of passion, a moment of temporary insanity.