That Mom (#24)

Here’s the thing, I know I’m not a perfect Mom.  I know I do things that other mothers of higher moral aptitude would cringe at.  And that’s okay.  Because I own my averageness.  I claim my marginality.  And I happily accept the title, That Mom.

Yes.  I am that mom.  The one that bribed her kid with Cheetos to get him in the car and to Preschool.  The one that sometimes swears in front of her child and then tells him not to do it.  The one that pretends she doesn’t know him when he acts a fool in public.  Yep.  That’s me.  That mom.

We can’t all be perfect, right?  The percentage of the population that is perfect is…well, it’s nil.  But hey.  That’s okay.  We need to be who we are, comfortable in our skin.  This doesn’t mean I don’t aspire to improve in certain areas of my parenting.  I do try to swear less in front of my child.  I know it’s not a great thing to do.  But I also don’t think it is the end of the world.  I’m far more concerned with making sure my child never, for a moment, doubts I’ve got his back.  That he always, always knows, I’m in his corner.  That he feels the depth of my love.  Every day.  This is what’s more important to me.

I may not throw the perfect party (although, I’ve got to say – I outdid myself for Noah’s birthday party last weekend) or offer to carpool a whole bunch of kids to a soccer game (okay, so maybe that’s because Noah doesn’t play soccer…and maybe that’s because even if he did, I really only have the patience for one or two kids at a time).  I may not be President of the PTA (nor ever attended a meeting).  The point is this.  I know my limits.  I know what I’m good at.  And I know where my opportunities are.  And I am going to live comfortably in that space.

I know that when I download music for Noah and I, it should probably be the clean versions, instead of the the explicit ones.  But sometimes, I just forget.  And that’s okay.  I know that I should probably closely monitor what he choses to eat for breakfast, swapping out the vanilla wafers for Cheerios.  But, at least he’s eating something, right?  I know that I should probably have more patience and less yelling (yes, I yell) but sometimes it feels like the only option.

Hey, don’t judge.  You’re not perfect either.  And I’m not holding you to any impossible expectations.  You be you.  I’ll be me.  And oh how happy we’ll all be.