I'm not the best mom.
I yell a lot.
I send them to time out.
I make them clean their rooms, put away their toys, and fold their laundry.
I make them take daily baths, complete with washing their hair. It's a nightmare for them.
I insist that they give 110% in everything they do; homework, sports, school plays. If you're not giving your best, why even bother?
I nag...constantly. Don't do it that way, do it this way. Mother knows best after all.
I make them say yes ma'am, no ma'am, please and thank you. I hate bad manners, and I don't want anyone thinking I'm raising ungrateful brats.
I'm hard on them. Sometimes a little too hard. Sometimes I push them too far. I expect more than I should.
Sometimes I forget to let them be little. I forget that they're still babies...my babies. Wise beyond their years, I expect so much more maturity from them than I should.
But my gosh, I love them more life itself. I would walk through fire, swim the oceans, breathe my last breath for them.
I would take away every ounce of hurt, every ounce of pain, every disappointment they've ever known if I could.
Their happiness is paramount to my own. I cry for them, worry for them, pray for them with everything in me.
I'm not the best mom. I could do more. I could hug more, laugh more, play more. I could give more of myself to them each day.
But my love for them could move mountains, and I hope that it's enough. Even on the worst days, I hope I'm still enough. I couldn't possibly love them more if I tried.