Parenthood, they say is the highest of callings, the noblest of professions. I always thought that was true and maybe it is. After all, there are not many other jobs for which a person would willingly wipe noses and other moist and stinky body parts, for a boss who never stops demanding and from whom a paycheck never comes; a job where the only room for advancement comes at the cost of sagging body parts, graying hairs, depleted bank accounts, and adult children who, (hopefully) finally start to appreciate you when you have one foot in the grave.

But then, there are also few careers that can give a person the boost that two little arms can, when they are thrown open wide and wrapped around your knees after a long day of work. Or the sense of pride and fulfillment that seeing a child excel can give; when they ace the test, or get the part, when they get the date, or fess up to the mistake, the swellings of parental pride bubble up like hot cocoa on an icy Colorado night. And in what other forum can a person preach all they want to an audience who has no choice but to listen and adore you, (at least for the first ten or so, years of their lives)?

I’m not against parenting, I am a mom and it’s one of the things that defines me. But that’s part of the problems: I am defined by my children and their choices.  That’s a problem because I have learned from my first seventeen years of chasing after these kids, that there are no guarantees. That no amount of doing it ‘by the book,’ or even by my gut will ensure anything about the future or the choices of the children I’m raising.

I’m not against parenting, but I do however, reject the general idea that good parenting results in good children.