I am the first one up in my house. This makes receiving breakfast in bed torturous. I knew from over-hearing snatched conversations, and from previous years, that this would be my fate yesterday morning. I wait in bed until my tray arrives. That came (finally) at 8.30. Scrambled eggs and chocolate. They know me well. When my son and daughter’s cards chimed with the ‘best mother ever’ message I challenged them on what they meant by that. Amber told me I was different to other mums because I was quirky and I help her with retorts when classmates are mean. Like? “Well, when Carrie asked me (repeatedly) what was that on my nose, you told me to tell her it was a unicorn”. Yes, I did. I also gave her a mean option- “it’s a pimple, just like the one you had on your chin last week” but my kind girl disregarded that approach. My 6 year old felt I had earned the best mum merit because I no longer pull his hair. I did tug on his hair one day when he’d pulled his sister’s – a taste of his own medicine he has not let me forget.
I don’t feel like the best mum ever. I even feel a little sad when I think my kids might accept that what I provide is the best mothering. Though I am their mother and I am the best they will get. I hope I’ll get better at it, the longer I am in the role. I worry that all the work I have been doing on myself is taking me away from the daily job at hand – of being their mother. And though I hope there will be dividends for my family (DH as well) I’m probably taking a gamble. Then I think of the safety demonstrations they deliver on aircrafts. Secure your oxygen mask before attending to your children’s. That’s what I am doing.