They don't just raise themselves

All year my failures as a mother drag me down into the depths of a dark and piteous party, and I don‘t think I am the only one in attendance.

In this dungeon of motherly despair are those moms who forgot to sign “the homework sheet,” who decided they were too tired to cook and swung into MC Donald’s for a family fat pill, whose voices rose just a little too loudly when Jenny or Jimmy robbed the peony bush of her blossoms and who forgot it was bike day or snack day or -- I don‘t know-- bring your lama to school day.

I am certainly not June Clever, nor am I as swank and put together as a “Park Mom.”

I am the lady who prays each morning that her kids are not tardy, that all their homework is done and that no one wants to chitchat in the carpool lane because she may or may not be dressed in pajamas.

My garden has weeds in it. My beds aren’t always made. And my laundry never seems to be done.

But, you know what? I’m a pretty good mom.

So many times I beat myself up for my failures that I forget to recognize the small miracles I nurture every day.

I don’t think I’m an anomaly.

I’m sure I’m not the only mom who has locked the bathroom door to escape arguments over who said what, did what or didn’t do what to someone else.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels unworthy of all the Mother’s Day hullabaloo.

As my kids drench me sloppy kisses and wrap me in a wallpaper of homemade cards, I just feel undeserving.

How can they forgive me for not always listening or for tuning them out as they perform yet another “Kid Concert” during the evening news?

But they do. They see all the good. This year I am going to try to see it with them and celebrate my triumphs.

I am a good mom because I read to my girls every night.

I tuck them in and give them fairy kisses.

I floss their teeth ( a disgusting but very necessary duty , especially after my baby’s last dental visit, which incidentally made me feel like Bad Mom No. 4,000).

On most weeks I bake two batches of chocolate chip cookies and then portion them out into Ziploc bags so they aren’t gobbled up in one day.

I also make them homemade strawberry jam and let them lick the spoon.

No bowls of scrapped out cookie dough go unlicked.

Each summer, I load the kids into the car and we go camping-- just the four of us.

I know how to set up a tent, light a campfire and barbecue.

I can read a map and am not afraid to indulge in a road trip.

I am not afraid of bugs, so when my baby slaps a caterpillar or beetle on my arm, I investigate it with her.

I know I am a good mom because I worry, I feel inadequate, but in the depths of my soul I know
I am doing the right thing -- though I am not always as successful as I wish.

I know my kids aren’t always angels, but I also know they are pretty empathetic.

They are three amazing, sweet girls, and though I know a lot of their goodness comes from within-- I also know I have something to do with it.