The other day, my daughter wanted to wear a fancy dress to school. After some back and forth discussion, I decided it would be ok. One small hitch - it was gym day. Needless to say, she ended up with a hole in her stockings. My youngest is getting too tall for most of his pants, but I only have a few pair that fit him, so I let him wear the short ones anyway. My oldest dresses himself, and most of the time he wears short sleeve T-shirts, and most of the time I don't notice. So he goes to school in a T-shirt, even on cold, winter days. (Clothing tends to be a hot topic of question in our house.)
I could go on, and by these standards, I am a horrible mom. There are people who don't agree with my choices. There are people who may scoff at my parenting skills. There are people who think I could do better... with a lot of things.
At that moment, when she sincerely looked into my eyes and handed me this crayon rendition of me, all the stupid things that I beat myself up over just disappeared.
My youngest son has presented me with drawings of him and I with a heart in between us, "because we're in love" he says. I melt to a puddle of mushy mush when he tells me things like "You make my heart happy, Mama" or "I love you past the Earth and space and the clouds and sky, and even past the sun!" All my bad choices, all my parenting fails, vanish.
My oldest (who is a pre-preteen) is not yet completely mortified by his mother's existence. He lets me hug and even kiss him on the head when I drop him off at school. He doesn't roll his eyes when I yell "Love you!" through the open window of the car while other people are in earshot. Not so much anymore, but he used to draw me pictures of him and I taking walks and playing together, complete with hearts and stars and flowers and more hearts. Now, he shares with me his many Lego creations and asks for my help solving word puzzles. And when he does, all my insecurities and all my questionable decisions fade away.
I spend time with my children. They cook with me, they clean up with me, they help me do laundry and dishes. We go roller skating, to the park, to the movies, to the grocery store, to the library, to McDonald's and out for ice cream. We take walks, we read books, we pull weeds, we pick strawberries and tomatoes together. We draw pictures, play games and I let them tell me what to do. We sing and dance and laugh and snuggle. I could go on, and by these standards, I'm a great mom.
I cannot and will not give them every thing their hearts desire. I don't spoil them by bowing to their every request. I have made some poor choices, but my children are always fed, always clothed, they always have a warm bed to sleep in and a roof to sleep under. They understand that I will listen to them and I will help them and I will pay attention to them.
They also know that they sometimes need to wait their turn to talk to me, or wait until I'm not busy and distracted so I can fully listen to what they are saying. They know there are rules to follow, and they (usually) know what happens when they don't follow them. They know what will happen if they push my buttons the wrong way. They know that they need to be respectful of everyone else around them.
I am most certainly not a perfect mom. But according to my kids, I'm the best mom. And if their vision of me is a flippy-haired, purple-eyed, smiling girl surrounded by hearts... well, I'm perfectly ok with that. Their standard is the only standard I really need to care about anyway.
