Mother Of The Year

Spoiler Alert: It's Not Me

I am not Mother of the Year. This became abundantly clear when I was the only mom who did not prepare handmade Valentines for my son’s daycare class. (There is no judgment if you did this, that’s awesome, go you!) I am just a lady standing in front of my children, holding a snack, begging for them to listen—a mere mortal trying to figure out who I am in the context of these tiny beings I have created.

I don’t know the latest and greatest methods of compassionate forms of communication or discipline. I haven’t opened a parenting book in longer than I would like to admit. The great education I am currently providing my three-year-old is a musical one as we watch one old Super Bowl halftime show before bed each night. Last night’s show was Prince, to which my son asked, “I know he sings about purple, but does he ever sing about red?” And then I serenaded him by singing "Raspberry Beret" as my way of saying yes.

I will never be Mother of the Year, and I will always feel kind of bad about that. I don’t have the patience for games, I’ve always been bad at regularly attending organized activities, and my favorite thing to do with my kids is sit with them on the couch and stroke their hair. I will forever mourn the mother I “should” be and belittle myself for the things I don’t do when I should be praising myself for the things I'm doing. 

Part of settling into motherhood is accepting that you could always do it differently, which is beautiful. The goal is perhaps to praise what others can do and hold it with what you like to do yourself. So while I may never be Mother of the Year, I am learning to like the mother I am.