Best Friends

My best friends.  I think I will describe them to you before I do the "reveal".  They sound much more interesting this way.

One of my best friends is no taller than my waist.   The other has a collection of dead insects.
One of my best friends poops, like, three times a day.  The other makes forts for bad guys and super heroes.
One of my best friends doesn't speak.  The other insists on wearing Iron Man underwear.
One of my best friends gives kisses at random intervals.  The other has imaginary friends like "Hoo" and "Goo-ah".

  Today I was out with my best friends at Subway, our fav place to chill and have a healthy "on-the-go" lunch, when I was approached by one of the employees.  She complimented me on my children and told me I was "such a good mother".  Didn't quite know what to say.  Sometimes I'm a little speechless when people offer such opinions of me.  They don't know me.  But, they do see my children and how they react and interact to and with me, so maybe that's how they form their idea of who I am and what kind of mother I am to my children.  

Either way, I just smiled and nodded.  But then I stopped smiling as she told me about her own daughter who refused to raised the child she brought into this world.  How her daughter was raped at fourteen and now, she, Grandma, is raising her almost twelve year old granddaughter "M".  She lamented at her daughter's lack of desire to be a mother as she proudly showed me her keychain with a school picture of "M".  Emotional sandwich today at Subway, that's for sure.  

It just brought me back down to earth.  Plucked me right out of my BFF cloud and slapped me in the face.  Not everyone has the same "mother" story.   Everyone is different.  Not everyone wants to be a mom, not everyone chooses to be a mom, some people have bodies that won't LET them be a mom...and yet, here I am, sitting in Subway, getting sticky kisses and soft whispers, Sunchips on my shoulders, chocolate milk spilled on my side of the table.  And I'm ok with it.  I love it.  Not only that, but my children are my best friends!  They whisper sweet secrets and touch my face tenderly with grubby fingers.  They want to snuggle in bed with me.  They look for me when I'm out of sight.   They seek my approval.

I am so blessed.  I chose to be a mom.  I chose to set myself aside for the next 18 + years and pour all of what I am into these two, small, innocent beings.  My best friends, at that.  

Cylas.

Romalise. 

The two best friends a mom could ever have.

My Definition

 

Me Defined.   

I don't play.  There are too many ways to live your "own life" nowadays.  People justify their indiscretions by using the age old excuse, "well, if s/he hadn't done this...I wouldn't have done...blah, blah."  Please.  Now, the tone of this post is going to sound a little harsh and I don't pull out this side of me very often but, I feel the need to share.

When I first became a mom four years ago (four!??), I was completely out of my element.  I was so lost it was laughable.  I knew the basic duties of being a mother.  Feed, change diaper, change clothing, bathe...but after that...what was I supposed to do?  Well, I started figuring it out really quickly when little tantrums started popping up.  I needed to train my child.  And once my child was trained, I could add to my child's life additional skills, people, social, and ethics.  But my child needed a firm foundation from which to build off of.  

Oh.  So THAT'S what else I needed to be doing other than the basic "let's-keep-this-child-from-starving" mothering.  Hmm, more than meets the eye. 

But.  and this is going to be a big one.  How does one put into their child what they, as individuals, are lacking? Before I give the impression that I was a hedonistic, barbaric neanderthal, I wasn't.  But, I was a little rough around the edges.

Let's jump ahead to the present.  Now, I have worked on myself for the past few years to make sure I'm the best example my son and daughter could have to pattern themselves after.  I can't wait for the day my babies whisper in my ear, "Mommy, I wanna be just like you."  

So, they define me.  If you want to know who I am.  Look at my children.  I am putting all of me into them.  Not only me, but my husband too.  They are me and I am them.  I don't have time to make excuses for my short-comings there isn't enough time in the day.  I need to FIX those parts of me because my children are counting on me.  I would rather err on the side of caution than to risk it all because of semantics.  So, call me what you may, prudish, close-minded, rude, judgemental but you aren't in my house.  My children are my responsibility and, ultimately,  I have to answer for the way I raised them. 

God.  Help me.  Amen.