Mother of the Year

I had a fantastic mother. I credit her for taking care of me until I was old enough to do it myself, keeping me alive (although some days I think it was just because she kept herself from killing me,) and ensuring that I obtained an education. She loved me, nurtured me, and told me I could achieve the goals I had set for myself. I understand now that she spent much of my life wondering how much longer she would be around. Having been diagnosed with melanoma in her twenties, when I was just 2, I know that surely her death was always on her mind. She was not, however, perfect. And I am beginning to realize that not being perfect is what made her a great mom.
Thanks to Facebook, I recently got in touch with a friend from my childhood that I hadn't talked to since junior high. When we started discussing what we remembered about being next door neighbors as kids, her exact words were, "I remember that you always had the sugary kid cereals, and your mom let you drink Coke for breakfast!" Her mom was a nurse, and sugar was a dirty word at their house. That brought back a flood of memories for me. I have to say that I turned out OK. I survived my childhood. I'm not morbidly obese, and my teeth have not rotted out. Yet. And while I have to say that breakfast for me is now a Shakeology protein shake, I still drink Dr. Pepper in the morning, and it doesn't look like I'll be stopping any time soon.
I confess that I do not allow my children to drink soda in the morning. I know, I know, if it was good enough for me, it ought to be good enough for them. But I can't help myself. The twins drank nothing but milk (because they wanted it) until their pediatrician told me to switch to the reduced fat kind, not because they were fat, but because they were 4. They immediately swore off milk forever and now drink water with breakfast. Thanks a lot, Doc. The baby drinks milk, water, and anything else she sees her sisters drink.
When the twins were little, they were on a schedule that I carried out with military precision. Woe be unto you if you messed with my children's schedule. Naps were golden hours of silence that allowed me to do things like sit down to eat and use the bathroom in peace. I freely admit that there were days when I felt like if I could just keep everyone alive until tomorrow, I had achieved my goal. I now know that I was experiencing some postpartum depression (NOT postpartum psychosis) but that is a topic for another day.
Anyway, as I was feeling the twinge of maternal guilt that I get every time I drive through a fast food restaurant, it occurred to me that I would never be mother of the year. I admit to the world that I let my kids stay up late on a school night from time to time. I let them eat fast food because they want it, or because I don't feel like cooking. I let them wear what they want to some days, even though it's too big or has a stain I just can't seem to get out. And in spite of all those things, my kids are okay. They are outgoing, do well in school, and are generally happy people.
Trying to be the perfect mother is exhausting, They say that with age comes wisdom, so here's what I've come to realize: I could spend the rest of my life trying to create the perfect childhood for my kids. I could work my fingers to the bone and give up every hobby I love to devote myself entirely to them. And when they are adults, I guarantee you they will find something I did that they want to do differently with their children. My mom wasn't perfect, but she was my mom. I understand it's just that fact that made her so special. She didn't have to be fantastically wealthy or a registered dietitian. She just had to be mine. I try to keep that in mind when mommy guilt sneaks up on me these days.
I let my third child do things I never would have permitted my big girls to do at her age. (Sorry, girls. Life isn't fair. Yep, I just used the "f" word. Yet another topic for another day.) Sometimes I admit, it's because I'm tired, or I'm desperate to get something done. I suspect that my mother felt the same way. I often let things slide because she's my "last baby" and I won't get to do this again. I know my mom experienced the same emotion, along with the additional pressure of "I may not be here to see her do this or that." I let my baby watch TV in her pajamas and have a sucker in the living room. I let her eat when she's hungry instead of on my schedule, and we blow bubbles in the kitchen. My big girls are already suspicious that we do all sorts of fun things without them while they are school. Fine, I admit it. Every day is a party until you get home.
These days, my hope for my kids is that they won't look back on their childhood and say, "It was perfect." My hope is that they will look back and say, "It was FUN! I knew that I was loved, that my parents wanted the best for me, and that they spent time with me because they wanted to. They taught me right from wrong, they made sure I got an education, but most importantly they taught me to enjoy my life, because I'm only going to get one shot at it."