Throw them away. All of your white dreams for perfect parenting.
It will save you in the end.
Last night, my husband was on an airplane. I was entertaining two preschoolers in the kitchen. Dinner had to be made.
I think I broke every rule of parenthood. Maybe even twice.
Toddler on the counter by a heated stove top.
Four-year-old within reach of not one but two piping hot pots.
A glass of water waiting to be spilled.
And, of course, the Halloween shirt that was originally self-selected for church.
If you peer at this scene long enough, you’ll find even more “errors”, failures that a tired mother struggling to cope will never see.
But, just behind the iPhone, a mother is beaming. With greasy fingers and slippery hands, she lets her kids into her vulnerable place. She is teaching them that reality will look different from your dreams. And, sometimes, cooking pasta is all you will accomplish.
But, truly, this is how I hope my children will remember me.
The clumsy mom who burns food.
The soul music and the risks.
The endless crumbs of experience.
Because in these years, there is life waiting to be lived.
And, sometimes, only the little hands get to stir the pot.
Two Years Ago: Monsoon Togetherness