June Cleaver, as all we people of a certain age know, was Beaver Cleaver's mother in the TV series, "Leave it to Beaver". We almost always saw her perfectly made up, in heels & wearing a crisp, clean starched apron over a nice dress. She cooked gourmet meals for her husband & kids. Her house was spotless. Many women (but not me) tried to emulate her. I have had many non-Cleaver days. (Even Cary Grant said he was not always like Cary Grant.) Let me give you some examples of my non-Cleaverness from previous posts:
When our youngest, Blake, was about two the kids were having lunch & I was at the sink, with my back to them. Blake knocked over his glass & spilled his milk. I wiped it up & poured him some more. He knocked over his glass again, & again I wiped it up & poured him more. I warned him not to do it again or he would be sorry. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he deliberately knocked it over one more time. I picked up the gallon milk bottle (which had probably a quart or so left in it) & emptied it on his head! Childish, I know, but it made a beautiful waterfall—or, I guess, a milkfall. He didn’t even cry—he just sat there with his little mouth hanging open in amazement as the milk cascaded over his head.
Later, I was a Brownie leader. My Brownie story: When Blake was slightly older, his sister, Nameless, was about to transition, or “cross the bridge”, from Brownies to Girl Scouts. I was her Brownie leader. I decorated a mirror as a lake with a bridge & some Brownie figures. Blake saw it & said, “Dat pwetty.” I said, “Thank you.” He asked, “Dat fo’ us?” I said, “No. It’s for the Brownies.” He lowered his head & walked away mumbling, “Ev’wy damn t’ing in dis house fo’ Bwownies!”
Bud later was the Cub Scout leader & I was the head Den Mother. We scheduled a "Thank you" dinner at our home for the den mothers & their spouses. (If the plural of mouse is mice & the plural of louse is lice, why isn't the plural of spouse spice?) No problem, the dinner went beautifully. The only thing that was bad? We had inadvertently scheduled it on Nameless' birthday.
My point is that no matter how hard a mother tries, she will screw up somehow. And you don't even have to be a mother. It's hard to be a young woman, as witnessed by these cartoons by Cassandra Calin:
If you can't (or don't want to) be the woman in this song:
Be this one: