What kind of mom sometimes gives up on making dinner because her kids snack too much beforehand then never eat it anyway?
What kind of mom buys her kids treats at the grocery store even though they misbehaved so she doesn’t have to endure the meltdown if she says no?
What kind of mom sets limits on screen time then ignores it because she is finally able to take a bath in peace?
What kind of mom buys her kids clothes and toys then complains when they are strewn all over the living room?
What kind of mom makes the kids go outside and play so she can clean the house but ends up scrolling through social media?
What kind of mom takes her kids to the park but only stays for thirty minutes because she’s too doggone cold?
What kind of mom tries so hard to be perfect and cries because she knows she’ll never get there?
What kind of mom has overwhelming fears that she may be ruining her kids?
A good mom. A normal mom. A mom like me. I have done every single one of these things at some point. I know you have heard it before, but I’ll say it again: “The fact that you worry if you’re a good mom is proof that you are one.” Why? A bad mom wouldn’t care one way or the other.
Motherhood is hard. We are accountable for raising moral, responsible, well-mannered adults, and it’s a twenty-four-hour job. It’s even more difficult if you’re doing it alone, like me. I constantly feel like I’m failing. But when I tuck them into bed every night to hugs and kisses and “I love you mom”- I know I must be doing something right.
As long as the good outweighs the bad and the happy outweighs the sad, they will grow up and be glad… they have a great mom. A mom like you.
When my older son lived with me two years ago, he loved to watch funny videos on his phone. When he saw one he thought I would enjoy, I would hear, “Hey mom…” before he would show me his phone. All day long at random times, “Hey mom…” While washing dishes, cooking dinner, folding laundry, paying bills- “Hey mom…” To be honest, it got quite annoying until I realized that was his way of hanging out with me, so to speak.
Let me start off by saying- I love Dave Ramsey. I have read some of his books, follow him on Instagram, and use the EveryDollar app to track my budget. I love how he’s not afraid to talk about his faith and encourages others to pay tithes/give ten percent to charity. That being said, I don’t agree with a few things.
A lot has happened in the month since I last wrote. My stepmother died a few days ago. She was married to my father for 38 years–since I was three. Together, they raised five children who gave them twelve grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. And yet she died without a single family member by her side.
It’s 8:30 a.m. on Monday morning. I am sitting at my desk in the school nurse’s office, checking my work email, and finishing my green tumbler of tea from home.
Normally, I would unlock the cupboards and grab the medication binder used to track when students come for their meds, but I won’t be needing that today. Next, I would check my mini fridge’s freezer to make sure I have a stock of ice packs ready to go before recess; I won’t be needing those today either.
Texas was home for my first eighteen years until 1997 when I moved up north to first Montana then Washington. I now have four children and due to the cost of plane tickets, I am only able to go visit every two to three years. In fact, until this past December, I hadn’t been home for Christmas since before I left in 1996.
I don’t want to complain tonight, but can I be real? I’m tired. I will be 41 in nine days. I have been at this motherhood thing for twenty-two years, and I still have eleven to go until my youngest is 18. That’s thirty-three years, y’all. Thirty-three years of cleaning up after little people, breaking up arguments, fixing broken toys, birthday parties, tantrums (oh yes, I am still dealing with that…)
Today I took my kids to a McDonald’s Playplace, and immediately the scene had me feeling all sorts of ways. First, the music that was playing was from the 90s, making me reminisce on my senior year of high school and wondering how in the WORLD am I going to be 41 in a couple of weeks?
It’s a bright, sunny day here in the Pacific Northwest, and I have an hour before I have to pick up my kids from school. I promised myself that I would clean my perpetually messy house during this hour of solitude. But God had other plans.