Ah, motherhood. It’s a wild ride, isn’t it? I’ve paced, fretted, shed tears, and even felt nauseous from the chaos. But after a long shower, a glass of wine, a few gluten-free cake pops, and some well-deserved relaxation, I’m ready to dive into this topic.
Let’s get real. I genuinely love being a mom. For about 72.3% of the time, it’s a fulfilling experience. Sure, I can be a bit of a yeller, and yes, I occasionally indulge in my feelings with snacks. A Pop-Tart here and there might not be the healthiest choice, but at least I haven’t harmed anyone else—bonus points for that!
I’ve observed my children’s quirks and, at times, I’ve made my opinions known. But let’s face it, I’m responsible for raising them, and yes, they might need a therapist one day (we’ve even set up a fund for that). They are, after all, their own unique individuals, full of opinions and traits that exist separately from my sometimes chaotic upbringing.
My Kids’ Unique Personalities
Take my kids, for instance. One recently stood proudly as a bridesmaid at a same-sex wedding. Another sports Bernie Sanders T-shirts and believes he still has a chance in the political arena. And then there’s the one who proudly flaunts a bumper sticker that reads, “You can take my gun when you pry it from my cold dead fingers.” Not exactly the values my partner and I might have envisioned for them!
For those who don’t know me, we thought we were doing such a bang-up job as parents that we decided to take on three more kids through foster care and adoption. Let me tell you, one of them has a biting habit that would make a T-Rex proud, and another just won’t stop chatting—he’s got a knack for asking the most awkward questions, like, “Why is your head so big?” or “I hate your baby; I only like mine.”
After dealing with these two, whom we affectionately call the “vandals,” I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut when kids tumble into zoo exhibits or, heaven forbid, a shark tank. I certainly don’t want to be “that mom,” the one standing nervously next to a police car while emergency services figure out how to keep my children from electrocution. Meanwhile, I’m left pondering, “Where on earth did they even get a Kentucky Fried Chicken hot air balloon?”
The Daily Struggles of Motherhood
I am vigilant. I guide them. I pray for them. I cut the crusts off their sandwiches, clean their ears, and clip their nails. Yet, at the end of the day, they’re still a hot mess.
Take my 14-year-old, for example. She has an incredible talent for playing the piano by ear, a skill she’s had since she was just two years old. She can sing—really sing. And while I’m thrilled for her, I can’t help but feel slightly intimidated. We even sleep with the door locked because, let’s be honest, we’re afraid of her potential to start a fire with her mind if we upset her. Sure, we hope her talents will lead her to a lucrative career that allows her to care for us in our old age. But her accomplishments? They belong to her, not us.
Societal Expectations and Self-Worth
As a society, we often tie our self-worth as parents to our children’s achievements. When kids mess up, the blame tends to fall squarely on the mother. “She really messed that kid up,” they say. I can’t deny it; I’ve probably contributed to their issues. But let’s not forget, some traits are simply part of their DNA.
My bookshelves are filled with dog-eared volumes on raising strong-willed and defiant children. My journals are filled with prayers from a frazzled, confused mom, hoping to raise healthy, happy, God-fearing individuals. My blog chronicles the struggles, the military school discussions, failed homeschooling attempts, police encounters, and the myriad of challenges that come with motherhood. Deep down, I carry the weight of wanting to raise decent humans, but they are their own people.
A Moment of Empathy
I recently witnessed a young mother at Target whose child has special needs. The struggle she faced was heart-wrenching. The boy was having a meltdown, and the judgmental stares from onlookers made it worse. My daughter, another mom, and I jumped in to help her with her purchase and get her to her car. She was drenched in sweat and tears. As we secured her son in his car seat, she sobbed, “I am not a bad mom. I am doing my very best. My boy is my whole world…”
These children are part of us, yet they are entirely separate beings. They possess their own talents, flaws, and destinies. One may need medication, another might need a parole hearing, while yet another could discover a cure for cancer. Apart from my dreams for them, they are their own individuals.
Conclusion
So, I wrote this blog for myself and for that mom at Target. Just know this: my kids are not perfect, and neither am I. But I am a good mom.
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Summary: This piece reflects the chaotic reality of parenting while emphasizing that despite the messiness of raising children, being a good mom is not contingent on their perfection. Each child is a unique individual with their own paths, and as mothers, we must embrace that fact while navigating the ups and downs of motherhood.
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