Pretty Good

For so many, it’s the norm, but it’s not the norm for me, so I’ll celebrate it.

Like so many of my chronically unwell mom friends, the biggest heartache is not being able to do what we’d like to do with our children. I used to hide in my bedroom to go cry from the extreme pain, and I thought I hid it well. Friends who have spent time with me know that I fake it as much as I can. But the day my first daughter told me when she was four years old, “No mommy, don’t put me on your back. It will get sore” was a hard day for me. I was disappointed that I couldn’t have that fun moment with her, but I had to acknowledge that she was right. It would definitely have caused even more pain.

And this began the self flagellation. “I wish I was better so I could be a better mom.”

Except, when I compare myself now to the mom I had as a child, I’m doing great. And more importantly, my children think so. The teenagers who tell me I’m a perfect mom, and the eight year old who tells me that she can tell I love her, so I don’t need to tell her are proof.

I may not be perfect, but I’m not as bad as I think I am. I have never raised my hand in anger. I have never yelled at my children. Unlike my mother, I have never thrown a condiment at them and made them lose their breath as the air rushed out of their lungs. Unlike my mom, I have not said a negative word about their appearance. They have not heard what I used to hear, “You look like a boy… Your forehead is too big. Your lips look like those of a drunk, you’re embarrassing. Your pimples are irritating me…” I knew full well it was hormonal, but she kept taking me to doctor after doctor, even talking about my bad skin to women in the shops at those beauty counters. They looked at me with pity, “Mama, she’s not that bad. And it’s her age. It will pass…” Talk about making me feel awful.

I have not said any such things to my children. They know they are loved for who they are. They know I want the best for them. They know that every form of discipline is so that they become good people who serve others and bring God joy. I’ve even told them that if I ever lead them astray, to ignore me and obey God.

On the other hand, my mother hates that I’m modest in dress. She hates that I homeschool my children. She hates that we adopted. Every good, every positive I’ve done as an adult, has given her more fuel to hurt me like she did when I was a child.

So, when my children hug me and tell me I’m the best mom ever. When I keep did ing random letters written by my eight year old, “Dear mom, I luv u. U are the best,” my heart melts. I don’t need to run around the house with them, that is a bonus. I don’t need to jump on the trampoline with them. I don’t need to go beyond to prove my love. They already know it.

And I will celebrate that.

It’s not how I grew up and I don’t ever want my children to bear the scars I do.

So far, so good.