First, let me say this: I pray that all you other church-going moms can get through sacrament today without breaking down into a blob of guilty tears. You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? As the well-intentioned speaker sings the praises to virtues of motherhood from the pulpit, you begin to question whether you deserve to even celebrate this day. "I am not that woman," you'll think in desperation. "I yell, I rush, I don't use every opportunity to teach my children life lessons! I over-schedule, I under-schedule, I play on my phone while my kids are making memories at the park. I count down the minutes until bedtime. I sometimes just throw a sheet over it and go back to bed when someone wakes up wet." Not that I do any (*ahem* all) of those things, you understand.
They'll continue on with how amazing this prophet's mother was (she probably washed her children's sheets at least once a week) and this woman in the scripture was a testament to womanhood (I bet she didn't cry when her child wrote with permanent marker across her bedspread). And look at this lady- the true essence of everything a mother should be (surely she didn't plan unrealistic vacations for herself-by herself- to places she dreams of going).
You'll collect your flower or chocolate bar, guide your child(ren) to class, and then shuffle off to Sunday School, just wishing that the teacher strictly sticks to the lesson plan and doesn't continue killing you with kindness.
Just me? Well, this is awkward...
Not this year. I refuse to allow anyone- yes I'm talking to you, Courtney Merrill- to make me feel bad this year. So what if I've pretty much completely given up on blogging my family's memories (really, the video camera Orrin got me for Christmas is to blame for my slacking)? So what if Wyatt's flip flops rarely- if ever- match, and his tennis shoes reek since he has decided that wearing socks is for dorks? Who cares if I forgot to get the kids' school teachers appreciation gifts last week? I'll catch them before school gets out. And I'm sorry that I chose to reorganize my office filing cabinet instead of helping Adi with her five-hundredth book report this year.
I am not perfect. And that's ok. It came to me other day as I was in the midst of a Courtney-Sucks themed private party: I am not supposed to be perfect. I am not supposed to have it all together, to have the perfect response to every situation I face. I don't need to be everything to my children. I am merely another struggling soul trying her darnedest to do the best with what she has. I do try. And, I believe anyway, that is what counts. Except when I yelled at the kids for the mess that I, myself, had made. I just really sucked that day.
Anyway: I don't have to be everything for my kids because they have to find self-satisfaction and self-motivation and self-love and self-kindness. And I can't do that for them. I can set a good example, I can plant seeds of individual worth inside of their tiny little innocent souls. I can show them that I make messes, I get angry, I make not-so-great decisions, I struggle, I hurt, I cry. But I also have to show them that I get up, I apologize without rationalizing, I forgive myself, I move on.
*insert amazingly uplifting quote right here that I say to myself a lot*
I will never be the completely put-together mom. I will most likely always have dirt on my shirt, chipped toenail polish, and smeared make-up. I will not be the soft-spoken mom who never raises her voice. I probably won't say the right things in every situation. But you know what? I do something even better: I try. I try to be all of those things without the expectation of reaching perfection in this lifetime. And I think that's ok. I think that is what God is asking of me.
I love my kids with every tiny shard of my broken and often-twisted soul. I see them as what they are and what they will someday be. I try to push their horizons and strengthen their skills. I fix them meals, I do their hair, and I wash their clothes. I sign them up for sports, instruments, dance, gymnastics, and I am there at every single game, performance, showcase, and parent's night that is served to me. I also yell. I stomp around, I hide in my bathroom. I use getting ice as an excuse to get out of the house by myself for ten minutes and just feel human for a bit.
And I pray. Oh, how I pray. I plead with Heavenly Father that when my children look back to these years, they see a half-crazed, sleep-deprived, over-worked, under-groomed human who served them until her body and mind would shut down in exhaustion each night. A woman who tried her hardest to make them into contributing, kind-hearted, driven adults with as few emotional scars as possible.
Scratch that: I hope they see love. Lots and lots of love.
And I really, really hope they forget that one time when we had pizza three nights in the same week. And we ate the leftovers for lunch. Let's all just forget that.
So: happy Mother's Day, to all of you amazing women out there! Soak up the love, the attention, the laughter, the gifts! Let go of the guilt, the worry, the weight of crushing responsibility- if only for one day. You are great. You are wonderful. You are trying. And you are doing awesome.
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