Musings on Mother's Day

 I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

I was never sure I wanted to be a mom. I was worried that I would be a cold mom. That I would resent all that I had given up to be a mom. That I'd be fundamentally bad at it. That I would regret it. I am not a mother-woman.

It wasn't until an unplanned pregnancy and a miscarriage that I realized that maybe — just maybe — it was something that I could maybe — just maybe — do.

I've never regretted the ultimate decision to have kids. I've also never regretted that I didn't manage to have a 3rd child, and I've never regretted my divorce. Sometimes the universe knows what to do.

The thing is — kids do, ultimately, ruin your life. But they ruin the life you had, the life before you had this love, this mess, this chaos, these hugs, these conflicts, these moments. 

I don't regret it.

I regret how messy my house is, how fundamentally dirty it is.

I regret what has happened to my body, the body that gave birth twice and never really recovered. Never found the hours in the day it took (before kids) to make this body "fit."

I resent — just a little bit — the cost. The fundamental debt, the working as many hours and as many jobs as I can to give these kids the experiences that I never had, that I never even knew existed, and still always existing in debt, not able to bring in quite enough to give them the experiences and life that I wish I could give them.

But I don't resent them. I don't regret them. I already miss them, as they are already pulling away, becoming their own selves, finding their own passions, hugging me in drive-by moments.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

I grew up with a mom who did her very best, but who was also running her husband's business, and trying to raise two toddlers on the side. I was the oldest-only child, only half-related to anyone, the one who never really fit in to either family. Nearly a decade older than any of my half-siblings, I was the odd duck. The ugly swan. The black sheep. The label. But my mom always let me know that she believed in me. That I was her first, and that we — she and I — had a history that was ours, alone, that no one could take away.

An I was incredibly lucky — I had a second mom as well. I had two women in my life who loved me unconditionally, no matter how awkward or odd I was. I saw two ways of living in the world, and I watched them. I learned. I loved. I knew I was loved.

As I write this, my son just did a drive-by hugging. "I love you mom. The weekend was epic. Thank you for taking me to Kentucky and for being an epic mom. I'll always be your snuggle bear." 

And then he grabbed his phone and his blanky, and he leaned into me and then his 6' tall self trudged up the stairs and went to bed (I hope). A fully formed human, a person I formed. A human whose dirty sock is in the middle of the living room as I write this. A human whose teacher I just emailed, a human who is eating me out of house and home, a human who has managed to lose all of our forks under his bed. 

A human who calls me mom.

My daughter has a field trip to Stratford on Tuesday. She has an outfit crisis. We solved it. I can take her to Kohl's tomorrow. She will be able to wear her vision. I can pick up another freelance piece. She's worth every word. 

And my daughter from another mother? She has moved on to the rest of her life. She has found her own path and forged her own future.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

It's Mother's Day, a day with an apostrophe I don't understand, a day that's never landed on "my weekend." But today I got hugs — real hugs — from both of my kids. 

Today, as I write this, both kids are asleep (?) in their rooms. In just a few years, both kids won't be here anymore. 

But these moments, these memories — they will live on. They will live on in me, and they will live on in my kids. Whatever my moms taught me, I have done everything in my power to gift to my kids. And they, in turn, will pay it forward to their future generations, whatever those will look like.

I have a complicated relationship with motherhood.

But I have no regrets.

A Letter to My Students Who Plagiarized. Again.

Dear Students-

Remember at the beginning of the semester, when I talked about plagiarism? Remember when I said that a number of you would probably plagiarize this semester because it happens every semester in this senior-level elective? Remember when you laughed when I said that the most commonly plagiarized assignments in this class every semester are résumés and cover letters? Remember when you commented that it was stupid to plagiarize a résumé and a cover letter and I agreed?

Ope, you did it again.

This semester, three of you submitted cover letters with paragraphs lifted from the internet. Three of you also submitted essays clearly written by ChatGPT, an AI writer developed by OpenAI. ChatGPT essays are pretty obvious -- they are too perfect, too generic, too formulaic. To a student, they probably sound amazing, like "college-level writing," whatever that is. But to a human being who's been reading high school-level writing for almost 30 years, ChatGPT essays sound like they are written by a robot. Plus, if your essay only has 3 keystrokes recorded in Google docs, then you probably didn't actually write it. "Control C Control V" doesn't count as writing.

But why do you do this every year? Why do you cheat when it's always so obvious? Why do you cheat when the only person you are hurting is you? Why would someone cheat on a résumé or on a cover letter, when these documents are specifically about you and your skills and work ethics? (Last year, a student cheated on their scholarship application essay. I can't make this up.) If you aren't going to learn these writing skills in high school, when do you think you are actually going to learn the skills? How will you excel if you never do the hard work?

Students -- listen to me. You are not hurting me when you try to game the system. The only person you are hurting is you. 

We worked on these assignments for days, sometimes weeks. You chose not to work on them. You put other classes ahead of mine, other conversations ahead of ours. You decided to play games on your phone instead of working to synthesize sources into a cohesive essay. You procrastinated, you backed yourself into a corner, you panicked, and then you plagiarized. It happens every year.

But you know what you didn't do?

You didn't learn how to write.

And you didn't learn to stop procrastinating.

You didn't learn to stop making excuses.

You didn't learn to be honest with yourself.

You didn't learn to own your own choices.

But you learned how to use ChatGPT. I guess that's something.

Listen, ChatGPT is a great tool. But like any tool, you can use it to do good in this world, or you can use it to cheat yourself and others out of something true and honest.

Good writing takes time. It takes passion. It takes thought and revision and reflection. Good writing is not generated by copy and paste, and it's not generated by ChatGPT.

What you submitted was not good writing. Instead, you submitted proof of your own lack of character. When times got tough, you took the shortcut.

And I want to be clear: several of you plagiarized. But most of you did not. Props to the majority who put in the effort and did the right thing day after day.

Look. I'm writing this because I care. I care about teaching you skills that will help you in college and in your career and in your life. I'm writing this because I care about you and your future. 

I hope that -- going forward -- you start to care about that, too.