I write memory poems about my mother's scrubbing the kitchen floor and baking me special treats. I have not supplied my children with such memories of myself. Perhaps I should feel some maternal regret over this, an angst that makes me question my devotion to my son and daughter. This is instead my story of why Eric and Miranda, now grown, will tell you they had a pretty good mom.

Domesticity is not a skill that comes easily, if at all, to everyone. My mother ironed for hours. I can envision her by the board with a shaker of water in her hand, dampening my father's shirts. My older sister gave me an iron and board for a wedding shower gift. That was in 1970. I couldn't really tell you whatever happened to them, but they are but a distant memory along with any ironing I managed to do before losing them.

My neighbor, Mrs. Christopher, gave me a lovely copy of The Joy of Cooking at that same shower. If memory serves me well, it was a hefty volume that came in handy when pressing flowers and fall leaves. I think I must have misplaced it into that same void where now reside my iron and ironing board.

You get the picture. I don't iron. I don't cook. And that subscription to Ladies' Home Journal my other sister gave to me the first Christmas after I was married ran out long ago. I actually saved the sterling silver monogrammed cake tester she gave me the next year, but that was for the sake of irony, not for the purpose of baking.

One might think that all changed when I became a mother. One might, but one would be wrong. My maternal instinct kicked in strong, but that means I held Eric on my tummy for hours while I meditated upon his perfect ears and wiggled his perfect toes. It does not mean I went out and bought a blender to make him homemade baby food. We went with breast feeding and Gerbers. And the lovely hand knit baby blanket came courtesy of my stepmother.

In three years our family became complete with Eric's baby sister Miranda, and then one year later, I divorced. So there I was, the doting, single working mother of two with full-time custody. What is a mom to do when she has many obligations to support and nurture her children? My answer lay partially in the ease with which I decided my precious babies did not need all that many domestic amenities.

Please don't get me wrong; they ate. They just ate lots of Chef Boyardee and Burger King. Someday I really need to write a thank you note to the creator of the Happy Meal. The three of us discovered together that Prego is sweeter and thicker than Ragu. We learned that Entemann makes luscious chocolate cake that tastes even better with Bryers ice cream. Eric grew tall and strong on many gallons of Minute Maid orange juice and skim milk. Miranda grew healthy and beautiful on SpaghettiOs and chicken nuggets.

This freed up countless hours for us to drive through Valley Forge Park and look for deer or skip stones by the footbridge. All those hours not devoted to meal preparation gave us time for Monopoly and Scrabble. I read Eric all seven volumes of the Chronicles of Narnia when I suppose I should have been making beds and learning the best ways to vacuum under furniture.

When Eric wanted to join Cub Scouts and the nice folks at the promotional meeting at the school told a roomful of parents they could not take in more boys without more den mothers, I became a den mother for the next three years. I suppose I could have spent the hours devoted to coming up with new projects to learning whether Pledge or Endust does a better job putting a shiny finish on furniture, but what's a little dust?

When Miranda asked if she could join the swim team when she was just six, I packed Eric and his homework up on swim practice nights, and he sat in the bleachers with his work while I sat next to him and graded papers in between times of waving at her. Just recently I came upon the book Miranda wrote about being on the team, and in it she drew on page 25 a stick figure picture of me in the bleachers as she is swimming. The text says, "My mom waches me. My Mom has too bring papers too grade. I like my mom for taking me too the pool." On another page she has written with pride, "I like me." Would I trade this book for my ability to tell you I ever once roasted a turkey or made a casserole? You can guess that answer.

Somewhere in between all our trips to the zoo, amusement parks, Pennsylvania Dutch country, historical sites in Philadelphia, and the miniature golf course, I suppose I could have learned to make hospital corners on beds, but it didn't happen. Maybe I should apologize for that, but I won't.

With all the money I saved on cleaning products and recipe books we took a pilgrimage to Harper's Ferry to visit the place my beloved John Brown met his Maker. Eric and Miranda can tell you, I'm certain, about the caves we explored on that trip as we made our way to Gatlinburg and the outdoor pageant about the Trail of Tears we attended in North Carolina. Or they could tell you about the four days we spent on a reproduction schooner that sails out of Boston Harbor. Ask them about the whales we watched and how they were able to climb up to the top of the mast. These are the memories I gave them to make up for the cupcakes I never made and the bathroom that never sparkled.

As my children grew older, we spent hours watching the news, discussing political issues, and listening to music that contains social commentary. I took them to concerts and just hung out. At this point you can simply use your imaginations to come up with all the other domestic chores I neglected for this. The Vagina Monologues contest held on this site recently reminded me of taking Eric to see this one-woman play in Philadelphia. The three of us traveled to Broadway to see Rent. Over the years we accumulated many memories like this.

Could I have done it all? Maybe. I didn't. There may be those of you reading this who balanced it all better. I bet there are. Could I have driven them to historical homes and museums and libraries to research their award-winning DAR essays and also mopped more often? Probably. But would I have then felt more haggard and less cheerful about the whole thing? I think so. It never occurred to me that motherhood should be sacrificial. Everything I did, I did because it sounded like fun. Every hour I spent with my children was my gift to myself, not an hour I felt I needed to remind them they owed me back. Somehow, I believe all that mopping and dusting and roasting would have changed this.

When my son got married to a lovely young woman who actually loves to iron and cook, I told her she was going to love me as a mother-in-law because Eric would never once tell her, "You don't do that like my momma did!" Tamara's bliss in preparing homemade meals and decorating her house fulfills her, and I stand in awe of her joy in doing these things. That is the key - it is her joy.

Last week I asked my precious Miranda what I had taught her so that I could write an essay I had hastily reserved a spot for before I had an idea of any lesson I might have taught. She told me to write about teaching my children how being a good mom doesn't necessarily mean being one who cooks and cleans. Miranda gave me such a gift with that answer. And so that is my story of what I taught my children. If it sounds like an elaborate excuse for failing to fulfill my domestic duties, so be it. Somehow, it resulted in two young adults who constantly amaze me with their wit, creativity, good humor and astute understanding of the world. Miranda still likes her mom. Who can beat that?