I spend a lot of time listening to my inner VOM -- Voice of Mom.

I don't mean that phrase in the philosophical sense; I mean that at least once a day, my mother's voice wafts majestically from that little place in my mind called "Don't Screw Up Your Children" and smacks me on the wrist. This function is usually applied in real-time telephone conversations with the owner of said voice, but let's face it, she can't follow me around everywhere and guide my parenting skills. So the VOM also is conveniently available in portable, Surround Sound audio, live from my cerebral cortex. (For a woman intimidated by e-mail, my mother's judgment is very technologically advanced. For example, right now, she's telling me that I better not write about her in this blog ... even though I know she's not even near a phone.)

I have a few friends who do everything they can to stamp out their own VOMs, rather like an ongoing teenage rebellion; I respect that. You have to find your own way as a parent. Occasionally (a certain someone would say more often) even I don't listen to the power of the VOM -- like the time last weekend when I didn't protest much as MJ took her shoes off at the Triangle Mom2Mom launch party and started a mini-rebellion by another little girl who told her mother she wanted to do the same thing.

"But why not, Mommy? She's doing it!"

"Well, because dear ..." the poor woman, trying to have a phone conversation, started.

"Because," I finished for her with an embarrassed smile, "her mother is bad."

This is what happens when I don't heed the VOM. There are consequences. With great power comes great responsibility ... to listen to your VOM. Only the fabric of society hangs in the balance.

I marvel at people like my sister who were born with nurturing instincts, who knew just what to do with the baby they were handed a few minutes after birth. That natural nurturer wasn't me, not at first. I learned parenting by placing memory to experience, and pretty soon I found the words my mother used to say or sing to me coming from my own mouth. Voila! Instant VOM.

When MJ was a few weeks old, a lactation consultant visited me to help pull me from the brink of formula feeding. And while I eventually jumped into the gloriously freeing vat of Similac below despite her best efforts, she told me something that made a great deal of sense, something she sees a lot of these days: Professional women who are trained to be, and expect to be, perfect at their jobs, feeling like they're failing at mothering.

I think that was when I realized how much I needed the VOM, and that it was OK to need it. The VOM expects the best, but rejects the idea of perfection.The VOM is well-read, but doesn't do parenting books. The VOM doesn't believe in keeping up with the Joneses. The VOM knows the secret that takes some of us a while to learn: That mothering is something you just do, not something you analyze. (Obviously, I haven't got the hang of that one yet.)

Every day, I grow as a parent. But I still have to rely on the VOM for even the smallest things.

"Beth, don't forget to brush your child's hair before you leave the house."

"She needs a coat, Beth. Were you born in a barn? Get that child buttoned up!"

"Just because all the other kids are going to Gymboree doesn't mean MJ needs to."

Etcetera. You get the picture.

I have a hard time picturing my own young daughters ever having an inner VOM, much less heeding it; I can see them listening to a voice that traces itself to Grammy -- the VOG, I suppose -- but me? It's an odd thought. How could I attain such lofty heights? How does the student become the master? I'm not entirely certain, but I'm sure the VOM will let me know.

Beth appears every Tuesday on Mom2Mom. Read more about Beth at MotherBunker.