What kind of mom?

I saw a post on a website yesterday that jarred me.  It was titled, "What kind of mom are you?" and there was an accompanying quiz to take so you could figure out some handy- dandy word to describe your maternal habits.  I felt it stupid right when I glimpsed it, but later I found myself thinking about the concept.  Are there really kinds of moms?  Am I a kind, one particular type that can be described succinctly? 

As you know from early posts, I'm a worrier.  Even at 11 months into this game, I still check on Mabel all the time when she's sleeping.  I still get nerved up that a cough means an illness, and I still worry that I am doing everything wrong.  I have this almost visceral fear that no matter what choice I make, I am messing up Mabel's future somehow.  That if I am a teeny bit under a full scoop of formula I will build up in her some horrid disease.  That if I don't react to her whines the right way she will be emotionally inept.  That if I don't wash her clothes in the right detergent she will have a permanent skin condition.  It's probably about my self- esteem, and I probably belong on the couch of a shrink's office, but I have nearly convinced myself I am an inept mom.

I suppose it's because I've never been in charge of a life before.  Does every mom go through some level of this "I suck" feeling?  Do moms tend to feel more or less confident when they have more kids?  Is there any relief?

So even though I know I am a worried mom, I still don't know what "type" of mom I am.  I know what I don't want to be.  I don't want to be a helicopter mother (seen wayyyy too many of those on my job), and I don't want to be an uninvolved, figure- it- out- yourself parent either.  I want to be protective but to a degree that allows for independence.  I worry that I can do that.  What if I become more and more worried, to the point I want to quarantine Mabel??

I also know that I don't want to be impatient, and I don't want to yell a lot.  My parents were awesome in many, many ways while we were growing up-- they were constantly supportive of our endeavors, and they loved us with more heart than I can describe here.  But they were also coming off of a generation of old- school, Irish- tempered households.  My dad yelled a lot, and got exasperated a lot, and my mom did too.  I don't fault them-- they didn't know any other way.  And we learned to be respectful of our elders, and to work hard, and to be humble, among other crucial lessons.  But I have to wonder if I would have ended up less a Nervous Nellie if they had been calmer.  I put a lot of pressure on myself for fear of letting them down (which is funny, because my dad asked only that we always try our best, and said the effort grade was more important than the actual grade.  I think I ended up translating that to mean that if I were working hard, I WOULD do well.  Maybe I had that perfectionistic way in my hard- wiring. Anyway, I digress...).  But I feel myself getting impatient around the house all the time: when the bottle brush won't get all the formula off, when Mabel tips a basket of laundry over, when she changes the channel with the remote and I can't figure out how to fix it.  I have to really try-- and calming words from J help too-- not to get unreasonably ticked off sometimes.  Argh- the curse of the Irish temper!  Temperamental is NOT the kind of mom I want to be.

If I want not to be impatient and angry and tight- assed, then it would logically follow that the kind of mother I want to be is calm and more roll- with- the - punches- esque.  I need to have these traits at work too, and in my interactions with J and my parents and everyone else.

While I am not ready to label myself as a kind of mother, at least I have figured out what I don't want to be-- what might be detrimental to Mabel's well- being.  She's worth it to me to try-- to try real hard.  I hope that no matter what happens, I turn out to be the kind of mom that Mabel needs.  She won't be a perfect mother, and she will screw up and act impatient and get nervous and pick at the skin on her thumbs when she's really anxious.  But dear goodness, please, please don't let her neuroses eff up that sweet little baby girl.