I know I’m not a perfect mom. Far from it, in fact.

I yell at my kids sometimes; sometimes more than sometimes. I let them eat cereal and yogurt for dinner the other night. I let them watch plenty o’ TV. I look forward to bedtime with a fervor that is shameful and some days, despite my desire to be fully engaged, I feel like I’m just phoning it in. As I said, I’m far from perfect.

But sometimes… I stand back and I look at what I’ve done for the past seven (almost) years and I’m fucking amazed. I amaze myself. I have birthed two children, raised one for nearly seven years and another for nearly two and I haven’t lost them, killed them or (to my knowledge) psychologically scarred them thus far.

They make it to all their scheduled pediatric check-ups, my daughter has been to the dentist for checkups and cleanings (with no cavities!) and they always have clean clothes and mostly healthy food to eat, all thanks to me.

They both get plenty of rest and I try my damnedest to give them plenty of experiences and fun things to do, even if it’s just in our own backyard, and I try to create as many good memories for them as I can without driving myself nuts.

I’ve tried to instill in them good citizenship and to be better than I am (i.e. don’t swear like a sailor or curse at people in traffic) and I try to minimize other negative influences as much as I realistically can.

I know that none of these are earth shattering things. People do this stuff every day and sometimes with way more kids than I have. I guess I’m just in awe of it all because when I was younger I never pictured myself raising kids OR doing all these domestic things that I admittedly don’t like that much.

I never thought I was the kind of person who would want to care for little beings that don’t have tails or that I would be any good at it. But I do and I am. And I have to admit that I’m really proud of myself.

But let me clarify…I’m not proud because my kids are such stellar human beings. I mean they are but they’re little. There’s still a lot of time for me to mess them up.

I’m proud because even though I don’t always love this job, I still get up and do it every day and I still look at each new day as another chance to get it right and leave everything that didn’t go right the day before in the past, which I think is critical to my sanity.

And my kids are happy. Even though I get impatient sometimes with my daughter’s penchant for drama or with my son for dumping the cat food into the cat water again, they KNOW I love them.

They KNOW I care about them and want the absolute best for them in life. They KNOW that I accept them as they are. They KNOW I’m CRAZY about them.

In conclusion…even though I’m not perfect, I’m a damn sight better at this than I ever thought I would be. So I walk a line between motherly self-recrimination for all the things I do wrong and self-congratulation for even being able to do it at all, let alone really well. And I think that’s okay to say out loud. Or on a blog.

I want to hear you brag. Tell me what makes you proud of yourself as a parent; tell me what you’re doing right, or what you’ve accomplished that you never thought you could do.

Go on. Toot your own horns either here or on your own blog (and let me know about it). You surely deserve it and if YOU don’t do it, who will?

Imperfectly Perfect Moms Linking to this Post:

Tracy of Random Thoughts of the Neverending Mind

Chris of Serendipity Mine

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And FWIW…because everyone in the flippin’ universe is complaining about truncated RSS feeds (aka “summary” feeds), I’m going to take a chance that my content won’t be ripped off again and stop truncating my feeds and see how it goes. If you’re strictly a feed reader, this should please you. Here’s to hoping you’ll still visit and show me some love every now and then :)

Summer, that is. School officially ended yesterday and until TQ starts camp, I’ll have both kids home full time for the next 18 days.

I’m okay with this because I have a jam-packed calendar of fun planned. In my head. Whether or not these plans will actually materialize remains to be seen.

Today is a prime example of the whole “best laid plans” thing gone awry. See, I got my period last night and I’m practically comatose today. Why does it make me soooo tired???

In any case, I’m very glad that it came because we were really stupid and played a little Russian roulette a couple weeks ago. *kicks self hard*

Oh, and we’re out of coffee, which is the proverbial nail in our collective coffin. I MUST have one cup of coffee every morning or else everyone suffers right along with me. Period + no coffee = cranky mommy.

Now imagine this whole scenario with two children tugging at you and making these relentless demands for, like, food and stuff. Slavedrivers, they are…

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Today my little girl is going on an adventure. Without me. Not that we haven’t been apart before but I’ve never been the type to just drop her off at something (besides school and close friends & family’s houses) and leave her well-being to someone else.

It’s not that I’m overprotective... Okay, it is. Sort of. But still. I just don’t fully trust anyone to watch over her the way I would. I’m her mother.

Anyway, she’s actually getting picked up from school with a bunch of other kids in a Hummer stretch limo and being taken to a fancy restaurant to celebrate a friend’s birthday.

So what’s the big deal? What am I worried about?

Oh gosh, I don’t know. All sorts of unlikely scenarios have flashed through my mind…child molesters in the bathroom; accidental peanut ingestion (she’s deathly allergic); car accidents; her getting left behind. You name it.

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As I stand on the precipice of yet another Mother’s Day, I struggle with what direction I want to take in writing this post.

Do I write about my mom again and how I feel about Mother’s Day when she’s been gone for 27 years? I fear there’s not much new to say on that topic and I really hate to be redundant (except when discussing those trashy, skanky thong-clad dolls, of course) so maybe I’ll just link to last years Mother’s Day post and leave it up to you as to whether you want to read it.

Or I could skip the Mother’s Day thing altogether and write about how this past week my six year old has started to ask questions about my origins; questions that only have complicated answers that I’m not sure I can simplify for her. The truth is, I’ve grappled with how to discuss my personal and familial history for a long time. I just didn’t think she’d start probing into all of it so soon.

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This past Saturday night I realized two things. I hadn’t gotten any Easter basket stuff for the kids and I had not a single acceptable thing to wear to dinner on Easter Sunday with my in-laws.

If jeans and t-shirts were a viable option or wearing black on Easter Sunday wasn’t generally frowned upon, I’d have been all set but alas, Easter is the holiday of pastels and nice, lady-like attire, which are things that my wardrobe is sorely lacking. Not that I mind, though, because I just feel like a big old poseur when I’m wearing such things anyway.

It actually reminds me of going home for the holidays during college and well into my twenties and feeling like such a misfit with my regular wardrobe that I would actually shop before my trip for something bland and suburban that would make me blend in a little better because being the thrift store-clad black sheep at those large family gathering? Is not fun.

Clearly, I still feel compelled to perform the same ritual before attending gatherings with my in-laws because I actually went to the evil empire (Wal-mart) on Saturday night (because Target was about to close) and not only procured Easter candy and related tchotchkes but also a few shirts in bright, peppy Easter egg-like colors with the intention that I could pair them with some bright, peppy capri pants that I secured for some other “Yes, I’m a total fraud” event. I even bought myself a pair of spring-friendly sandals since all my other sandals have seen better days.

So yes. I spent my Saturday night at Wal-Mart buying candy and clothes which is only slight less humiliating than the following Sunday morning conversation with my six year old daughter wherein we are discussing what I am going to wear to Easter since I’d said the night before that I didn’t have diddly squat –

TQ: Mommy, you can wear this shirt for Easter *holds up my new sky blue top* It’s perfect for Easter and it doesn’t even matter that it’s a maternity shirt.

Me: Wha??? Why do you think it’s a maternity shirt?

TQ: Because it’s GIGAAAAANTIC!!! *runs off laughing*

Kids say the darnedest things, don’t they?

And yes, I did don my “gigaaaantic” shirt for Easter and would you believe that for the first time ever everyone was dressed casually in jeans? Yes. Due to cool weather they dressed in jeans while I’m wearing this hideously bright blue shirt and coordinating plaid pastel capri pants and looking like a total dork-ass Easter egg.

The moral of this story is?

Um… Be yourself?

Buy better clothes?

Be better prepared so you don’t have to settle for the rather limited selection at Wal-Mart?

Don’t be embarrassed about looking like a schlub in front of your in-laws because one day they will all surprise you and wear jeans to Easter dinner?

Select tighter shirts so your daughter doesn’t think you bought maternity clothes?

I need to go on “What Not to Wear”?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

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Do you see the picture of the kitty at the top of my right sidebar? Can you click it and then click the purple button to feed a shelter animal? It costs you NOTHING and you can do it every day.

Would you please do those two little mouse clicks. Purty please?

Thanks in advance to all you good, kindhearted animal lovers. I knew we could count on you :)

I don’t know what it is but a trip to the public library never fails to produce some story or anecdote and our most recent visit was no exception.

I had taken P, now 21 months old, to story time at our local branch library. At first he wasn’t really into it, much preferring to wander around and turn doorknobs, climb chairs and generally check out the room.

But finally, after several false starts, he made his way up to the group of other children and sat down — until he spotted the fabric draped over the Story Lady’s table. See, she brings a colorful fabric that she drapes over the table next to her like a floor-length table cloth and she displays a bunch of books on top it.

P immediately approached and then crawled under the cloth. And then poked his head out out. And then went back under and then came out again, grinning like he was the star of a show doing an encore instead of an incredibly cute toddler disrupting story time.

I bounded out of my seat and tried as discreetly as possible to go under the table from behind and coax P out but he was wily and hard to catch. On my hands and knees, I stuck my head out the front to see about 20 pairs of eye staring back at me.

After much under-the-table wrangling to grab a giggly and very wiggly P, I finally managed to get a hold of him and as I tried to hold onto him and stand up at the same time, my postpartum stress-incontinence reared it’s ugly little head and I peed my fricken pants a teeny bit. Crap.

As I stood up with P in my arms and smiled sheepishly at the crowd, I decided that my bucking and squealing toddler and I should go to the bathroom and survey the state of my jeans and let the Story Lady finish up. Fortunately, as it were, my jeans were spared. Booyah, betches!

We went back in the room as story time was wrapping up so I could collect our stuff and the nice Story Lady told me that in all the years she had been doing this, no child has ever crawled under the fabric before (which I find incredibly hard to believe.) I apologized to the Story Lady, who actually is very sweet & understanding, particularly of toddlers, and we left.

Rest assured that I was sufficiently embarrassed by my son’s shenanigans. Not, however, because I felt like he was misbehaving but rather because of people looking at me the way they did. Not a single smile of understanding in the bunch except from one lone daddy. Thank you, kind sir.

You want to know what I have to say to that?

Lighten UP, people! He’s not even two years old and it’s toddler story time at the library; not dinner with the Queen of England.

I peed my pants for you people. Isn’t that punishment enough? Geez!

I did something so dumb. But first? A little background…

Does anyone remember Wacky Packages? They were stickers that made fun of everyday products and they were sold like trading cards, along with a stick of gum? I used to LOVE those things. I think I was into them in about the mid-seventies and it was a full-blown fixation. I couldn’t wait for the next time we were within a quarter mile of a 7-11 or Little General so I could beg my mom to stop and let me buy a pack or two. It was just so exciting to rip open the wrapper, which as I recall was kind of a waxy paper, and see what stickers were awaiting me inside.

My favorite was Fruit of the Tomb which was a spoof of Fruit of the Loom t-shirts. I don’t know why but I really got a kick out of that one. The funny thing is that as I have been perusing some of the old Wacky Packs collections online, I realize how much of the humor went right over my head. There were some stickers that always made me groan when I got them because they didn’t seem very funny but now that I’m older, I totally appreciate them.

So the other day I went to Target with the kids. TQ wanted something green to wear to school for St. Patrick’s day since they relax the uniform policy that day and considering that she’s even more Irish than I am, I couldn’t refuse her. While we were there, I saw that they had Wacky Packages. I had no idea they were making them again so I picked up a couple packs and just like when I was a kid, I was so excited!

That evening, after dinner, I remembered about the Wacky Packs and brought them to the table, waving them around like a little kid. I opened them up and start perusing my sticker booty and then I realized that these might require a little explaining because my 6 year old daughter might not understand the sort of satirical, and often gross and/or morbid humor of Wacky Packs.

She thought the Kids Cursin’ (Kid Cuisine) was funny even though I had to explain what cursing is (using grown-up words) and she found the Fancy Feet (Fancy Feast) one to be gross but amusing so I thought “Hey! She totally gets it! It’s cool” but when I showed her the Pillsburied Deadsticks (Pillsbury Breadsticks) she studied it for a moment and then tears began to well up in her big hazel eyes.

Me: What? What, honey? Why are you crying?

TQ: This makes me saaaaaaad. *tears pouring down face*

Me: Oh, baby it’s just a joke. They’re making fun of advertising and products and stuff. The doughboy and breadsticks aren’t really hurt.

TQ: *sobbing* But I like happy things. This is saaaad… *more sobbing*

Me: *thinking* I am a total idiot. My excitement over these stupid stickers made me completely forget that my daughter has a big, soft, squishy, empathetic heart. I feel awful. *dons parental dunce cap & tries to make teary-eyed daughter forget about traumatizing Deadsticks by giving her the stick of gum*

Nice going, Mom. Way to make your kid cry & scar her for life!

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Okay, now humor me for one more minute while I engage in some motherly gushing and bragging…

Here are a couple pictures of my adorable baby girl on Friday wearing her green striped shirt and green pom-pom socks for St. Patrick’s Day (a day early). And check those leprechaun ears!!!

She was student-of-the-month (Woohoo! Yay TQ!) so we had a celebratory lunch with her at school!

(Note to self: Next time skip the lunch and just buy a two chocolate milks like you did back in high school because school lunches? They still suck)

Click pix to enlarge

I haven’t said much about this because babies not sleeping? So normal, so common, right? What about toddlers who abandon their formerly stable and predictable sleeping routines? Still not abnormal and certainly attributable to any number of things. And God knows I’m not alone here, right? Hello Catherine!

Unfortunately, we’re not dealing with a little bit of sleeplessness or the occasional night waking. No. P has decided recently that sleeping and napping? It’s for suckas. And I honestly believe that in my quest to be a good mom, I may have created a proverbial monster.

How on earth did I do that? By always answering every cry or whimper. By never letting him cry for longer than it takes to appear cribside with a ready hug or cuddle or…the wrecker of all sleep habits…the “let’s snuggle for a minute on the big bed while you settle back down”. I know that last one is the culprit because now whenever I go to see what’s wrong, P leans his entire body, safety be damned, towards our bed, pointing and speaking in that mysterious language he prefers over English.

I just want to clarify that the waking isn’t just waking. It’s also the flat refusal to sleep in some cases. Either way, he goes from being perfectly fine to basically standing up in crib screaming like he’s being with poked with an electric cattle prod.

The first thirty or so times, the huz or I would go running in, convinced that he was, in fact, dying. But after innumerable diaper checks, itchy checks (he has a touch of eczema on his arm and sometimes it flares up and itches), considering the possibility of teething (and thus administering some pain relief) and countless bottles of milk (Yes, I said bottles. Shut up), we have concluded that there is actually nothing wrong with him other than his newly developed sense of autonomy, which we’ve decided we pretty much hate (and so does his sister because she can hear him through the walls.)

This means we have to do it. The evil three letter acronym…

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