Play at Home Mom

There are days when I feel like the worst version of myself, when I wonder who gave me stewardship over two (almost three) little lives, when I wonder whether he'll remember the five minutes we spent painting with our toes, or the five minute heated conversation about why the freezer door must stay closed.  When I'm certain someone else could do a better job.

Why are we so quick to beat ourselves up, to forget the million and one ways we are incredible?  How is it so easy to ooze ugliness about decisions, our own and those different from our own? 
It is not a contest, this parenting thing.  It doesn’t matter who stays home and who commutes to work.  Whose child has the worst illness or whose has never had an ear infection.  Who pulls all nighters and who naps at naptime.  Who's dog-eared more child-rearing books or who’s never needed to look at one.  Who copes best with a nightmare or who lives a dream.  Who pays for the best nanny or who relies on grandparents too much.  Who makes repeated PB&Js on white bread and who shops organic and serves fruit with every meal.  Who fills their children with formula or who contributes disposable diapers to landfills.  Who holds themselves to the highest level of perfection or who is comfortable with mediocrity and without guilt.
Mothering is more than milk.  It is more than advocacy or discipline, more than money or time.  It is definitely not a contest.  And anyway, as soon as your baby is born, you win.

And then you keep winning, in a million and one ways, every day thereafter.
JEB