How to raise perfect children

As a mother, I've always been ambivalent about that old saw "it takes a village." Sounds great when another mom volunteers to drive your kid to the laser tag birthday party an hour away. Less appealing when a stranger offers you unsolicited parenting advice as you're managing a Target toy aisle meltdown.

My children are well into their teen years now, which means I don't need to get them rides as often (they or their friends can ... gulp ... drive themselves), and friends and bystanders are less prone to offer their own child-rearing tips.

A lot can go awry, especially when raising willful little expletives with dreams of their own.

Why? Well, teens (mine at least) usually don't take kindly to being spoken of in the third person. And they're happy to answer even the most benign suggestion with a withering, ego-destroying remark most people aren't prepared to process on a given Tuesday afternoon.

Also, let's face it: For better or for worse, teenagers are already more or less formed. Whatever development they have ahead of them, they don't offer the tempting blank canvas that, say, a 4-year-old does.

And what person in their right mind would want to participate in endless exchanges like this if not obligated by blood?

Why are you yelling?
Because the 19 times I asked you nicely haven’t worked.

While I do occasionally miss the baby years, I'm just as often grateful we've moved on. Especially having recently read about all the newish moms paying for parenting advice on Instagram.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

While in-utero and throughout their first years, my children showed many signs of the superlative futures I had envisioned for them. Indeed, I comforted my sleep-deprived self, they would become the Nobel Laureate-Supermodel-Olympic athletes I’d dreamed of as morning sickness morphed into all-day nausea.

Anyone and everyone could see the signs; I went into labor on the very day my OB/GYN predicted for each of their births. They held their heads up and rolled over ahead of developmental schedule and remained on target — even ahead of schedule, sometimes by days — throughout their toddler years.

Obviously, this was an omen; my privileged progeny were perfectly suited to fulfill my dreams for their lives. What could possibly waylay them on their way to world domination — and me on my path to Mother of the Millennia?

Turns out a lot. A lot can go awry, especially when raising willful little expletives with dreams of their own.

Children are humans. Sentient, separate, imperfect individuals even ... with their own opinions about everything — including their lives’ trajectories. The nerve.

But even if my offspring had manifested my wunderkind dreams, I’d still be me. Yes, I might have been the mother of humanity’s next evolution, but I’d still be this not-meant-for-mass-production, flawed version of my "best self" who is writing this about a minute before it’s due.

Ironically, it's in my children's recalcitrance that I most see myself. Like me, my children have strong wills. Their ferocity drives me mad in different ways — but always screaming, often toward Chardonnay.

In these moments, I regard my strong will as a hindrance. I bang my head against metaphorical walls. I undertake Quixotic causes that zap my strength, time, and focus for naught. I see my offspring tilting against the same windmills.

And yet I must admit that my strong will also serves me well. I persist. Against career obstacles, chronic disease, and family foibles. Some of what I first identify as stubbornness in my kids often turns out to be persistence.

Like a contorted funhouse image, my children reflect a twisted version of my best and worst traits. When I see my worst self in a 34, 16, or 11-year-old version, I pray that gene-editing techniques will evolve so that my grandchildren will only reflect the best of my progeny and me.

But they won’t. So, I take a deep breath, and dig deep until I find faith. I say a prayer for the wherewithal to direct my powerhouse progeny toward a worthwhile purpose.

Let go and let God, in other words. I've heard worse advice.