A dear friend recently blogged about Mothers and Daughters. I was quick to respond, commenting that though my relationship with my own mother is excellent, I spend most of my days now worrying about my relationship with my daughters.
I wonder if they’ll remember the days I was depressed and couldn’t get out of bed, or the days I took them to McDonald’s as a special treat and we ran around the playground. Will they remember the mistakes that I made as a mother, or that I tried so hard to be the mother I wanted for them?
My girls are my life. But I’m quick to accept that there are days where I want nothing more than to be selfish. For someone to help me with them. For them to just play quietly and let me knit one more round.
Add in, of course, the struggles that I’ve had as a mother. Should I discipline more, or less? Should I spank or not? Will one more lollipop really hurt them? I don’t want them talking back…but how do I handle it? Should we let them sleep in our bed?
Parenting is no easy task, that’s for sure.
Mostly, I hope that the girls know how much I loved them. That even with all of my shortcomings, they’ll remember that.
I flash back to a fight I had with my mother once when I was in high school. Driving home after school still mad at her, and finding a note that she, my quiet and reserved mother, had placed on the seat next to me. Reading it and hearing her say that she knew that she wasn’t perfect but that she tried her best. And when I sit her trying to remember the bad, I can’t. All I remember is this.
I pray that when my girls sit down to remember me one day, they’ll have the same realization. That I wasn’t perfect, but that I tried my best.