There was a time when I tried. I really tried.
To be all.
There was a time when I tried to be everything my husband and children could possibly ever need. Early on in my motherhood, I tried. Some days, I admit, I’m still trying.
Even though now I know better.
But I can’t. I’m not meant to. No one is.
I cannot be everything and do everything, no matter how badly and desperately I may feel like I want to or need to.
I wanted a life so beautiful and perfect for my children that they would not for one iota question how loved they are or how dedicated I am to them, especially when they grow up and look back onto their childhoods. I wanted them to know that they come first, always, always, always. I wanted things to be as perfect for them as possible; magical childhoods painted on a golden canvas. Probably by Bob Ross. Because he knows how to make happy mistakes okay, too.
But that’s not what I am giving them.
Not because I can’t (and I can’t), but also because I won’t.
They deserve more. Better.
The deserve real.
So while I enjoy making their bedrooms look beautiful, they’ll have to excuse that the living room looks like someone shut their eyes at a garage sale and blindly chose items to decorate with.
Although I love buying them cute clothes, they’ll have to overlook that they’re often wrinkly and put away into their dressers sorely.
I love cooking for them, preparing healthy, delicious meals. But sometimes they’re just going to have to eat Dominos for dinner and deal with it.
Some days we read books all day long and some days we watch TV. And maybe I’m giving them ADD by allowing them more than 30 minutes of screen time some days, but we’ll manage. They’ll manage.
Some days I can come up with fun crafts and projects for us to do; but most days, there’s the crayons and papers. Create your own uninhibited masterpiece while I pee in peace.
You have to eat the crust on your sandwich because I am simply never going to cut it off for you. Same with your apple peels. You can deal.
I can be the most patient, gentlest of mommas most of the time. But not all of the time. I, too, am human.
No, I can’t fix your problems. I know there are many. Your socks feel funny, you can’t find your Power Ranger that is literally right by your foot, and someone must have stolen your shoes because they’re not in the cubby (and there is just no way possible that you’d have taken them off elsewhere).
I will help you. I love helping you. But I won’t do it for you. And some days, my only help is taking a deep breath and telling you that I can’t.
I can’t do it all. I can’t be it all. I can’t make it perfect.
And at the end of the day, that’s my gift to you. A perfectly normal childhood. With two perfectly normal, mentally-healthy parents who are deeply in love with one another.
And I guess when I stop and think about it; that’s really all I ever wanted anyway.
To raise happy kids in a house of love where failure is okay and food is abundant, and all problems can be talked out 7th Heaven-style.
My days of aspiring to be Super Mom have passed. That ship has sailed. Sorry, kids.
But I think you get something even better.