I truly wish I found it easier to look at each new day as an adventure rather than a chore. Who really wants to look back at their life and realize that it all just seemed like work? I don't want to feel like this but I do.
I know I will regret the day when all my kids are grown and gone (which will still be forever, I know). When I look at Jack now with his pride over his three armpit hairs and think to myself that in a just a few years he'll be graduating from high school, I want to hug him and hold his hand and tell him that when he was a baby, we babied him just as we are doing Maeve.
No one but me and my good friend, Marzi, will ever take notice if my floors are unswept. Who gives a you-know-what that my neighbors can see the Lookout Mountain sized laundry pile growing on the couch?
I want to make a better effort to make eye contact with my kids regardless of my exhaustion level, so they will be sure I am actually listening to them. If they grow up feeling that they got shafted because I selfishly wanted five kids, I think my heart my break.
I realize I am harder on myself than anyone else could ever be. I can't be the "perfect" mother. No mother is. Everbody's baby shoots a mustard cannon up the back at some point.
I'm thinking that maybe being a perfect mother means striving to be imperfect.
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