I'm the mom who yells.
I don't mean to.
I try not to.
But it happens.
More often than I care to admit.

I'm the mom who's a pusher.
Pushing my kids to try new things.
Forcing them to work harder.
Driving them towards challenges because I know they can and will rise to the occasion each and every time.

I'm the mom who lacks patience.
And grace.
And organizational skills.
And cooking prowess.
And math knowledge.

I'm the mom who drives people crazy.
Who acts crazy.
Who is the walking definition of a 'hot mess' minus the hot.

I'm the mom who martyrs herself regularly.
But not without unrelentingly and loudly acknowledging and avowing such because, sure, perhaps at times, I'm seeking some validation for all that I do.

I'm the mom who messes up dinner.
And lunch.
And often breakfast.
Because I can't cook and don't enjoy it.

I'm the mom who doesn't like to play because I view it as unproductive even though I'm wholly aware and mindful of the fact that any time spent with my kids is incredibly valuable and therefore undeniable productive.

I'm the mom who cries over

spilled milk,

smashed Goldfish,

paint on clothes,

car spills,

and bedtimes that take too long.

I’m the mom who dons a cape of anxiety.

I’m the mom who worries.

About everything.

All the time.

I'm the mom that keeps screwing up.

But I'm also the mom who keeps trying.

The mom who will damn sure never give up on herself or her youngsters.

The mom who loves her kids with every fiber of her being.

And, at the end of every very long day, isn't that really all that matters?