Now that I am older, I have come to appreciate the amazing restraint my mom exercised when I and my sisters were children and teenagers. With our rolling eyes and know-it-all comments and all-around pain-in-the-posterior attitudes, it is a miracle that any of us ever made it to adulthood.
And yet, here I am, a mother myself of children with their own eye rolls and smart-aleck responses and P.I.T.A. performances: I swear they will be lucky to make it to next week! Continue reading
Hunger pains and anxiety prodded me from my bed at 5:00 a.m. A cup ‘o joe and a buttered bagel silenced my snarling stomach. A game of Candy Crush calmed my nerves.
Sated and centered, I prepared for my busy day: nylons donned, hair curled, makeup applied. At 6:15 a.m., I began the first of many attempts to coax my kids from slumber to school. I seriously considered using a crowbar to pry them from their pillows. At 7:10 a.m., they were finally up and ready to go, so I slipped on my heels and out the door we went.
I have a confession to make. I am a mediocre mother. (There…I said it. The truth is out.) No, please don’t try to assure me that I am a stellar parent, worthy of accolades. I am not.
For many years, I have naively believed that I would somehow morph into the supermom of lore—a woman one step from perfection. I struggled with my shortcomings, always lamenting that somehow I was just not good enough. As a long-standing overachiever, ordinary was, well, plain ordinary.