It’s Mother’s Day.

Normally, this is the part where I’d be going on a tirade about how my children have no concept of what it means to be civil to each other for more than a 1-hour interval – Mother’s Day be damned. And, as much as I love being able to utilize the internet to air my maternal grievances, I’m feeling a little reflective this year. Considered yourself warned; it may get all sentimental and reflective up in here.

For as together as I have always fancied myself, this whole Mom thing continues to chip, chip away at my heretofore crystallized sense of self. This year, in particular, has started to create the kind of fissures that actually create large falling chunks of debris.

I have made numerous speeches, both on these pages, and to my eternally patient friends and family about how tough this parenting gig is. I’ve proclaimed my stance. I’ve issued the “I never” statements. I’ve put my foot down firmly and confidently about sticking to what I thought was right. Because that’s what I do best – I KNOW what I’m doing. The trouble with this approach, is that once you realize you DON’T know what you are doing, you are kind of screwed.

I have been a parent for almost 7 1/2 years. And each year, while I am busy recording my snarky parenting observations, I am also being challenged in ways that I never knew was even possible. In the great deck of kid-themed cards, I was dealt a whip-smart, hard-headed, overachiever of a daughter. And an adorable, yet quirky son with the intensity of a nuclear reactor. Each of whom, I would not, could not trade in a million, gazillion years. I adore them. I profusely adore them. Let me tell you why.

Firstly, they are the fruit of my loins. I have little room to complain considering they are part of my genes, blood, goo and all that stuff. Secondly, there is that tiny fact that they are amazing. I adore them. Have I mentioned that already? They are beautific. Gorgeous. Amazing. Absolutely Wonderful.

Then there is that part about me. The part where I spend all my time worrying that I’m doing it all wrong. Parents, you hear me, right? It’s that part where I realize I am using that impatient and cranky voice way too much, or lecturing when I should be listening. Or that I am letting them watch too much TV, but also not wanting them to be the “we don’t have a tv, because my parents think that corporate America is subverting my intellect” kid either.

Somewhere, I’m not exactly sure when, I came to a crossroads where I started having to make some concessions with myself. That moment where I had to say, “Natalie, you don’t know this. Stop pretending you do.” I wasn’t born with the soft, squishy, natural parenting sensibility. I initially credit this realization to Porter, but have very quickly come to realize that it is also Stella who is making me learn to choose my words ever so carefully. Porter’s brand of crazy is usually pretty straighforward: intricately managing the flow of what would be considered the normally inconsequential sequence and nuance of every detail of our lives. Stella’s needs are far more subtle. Firstly, she’s the older kid. The girl. As I see it, she’s pretty much, THE ME. I (as well has her father) have our work cut out, in enabling her to be the most self-confident, empathetic, kind and beautiful girl she is destined to be. I will consider it my own personal failure if this shit goes all screwy.

So then, back to me. The part where I have to admit that there are many ways that I have most definitely been doing it wrong. Paraphrased from one of my favorite moms on Twitter: How is it that kids are these giant mirrors? Showing us everything that is wrong within ourselves and simultaneously challenging us to be better?

How strange is that? Somehow, in making them better, we have to simultaneously make ourselves better too. Their Kid Kung-Fu is strong.

So now, in full-on reflective Mother’s Day mode, I am gazing sappily at this parental transformation. It’s not perfect yet, and may never be. I try not to focus on what I haven’t done, but more what I hope to accomplish: That our son’s quirkiness will become nothing more than a charming self-awareness of kookiness (he’s got the intellect part in the bag), and that our daughter will be able to channel that wit, intellect and warmth towards a life of greatness. And that both of them will be happy. Blissfully happy.

See? I told you – sappy.

So, cheers.
To my moms (both actual and in-law).
I’m proud to be part of your club.