My kids are awesome.
I mean this in the truest sense of the word: they put me in awe.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to engage in some stupid my-kid-was-toilet-trained-first nonsense; I’m sure your kids are awesome too. And in the interest of our friendship, I’ll even pretend that they’re as awesome as mine.
Witness: 5 hour drive to Guelph that stretches to 8, and instead of a whine fest I am treated to full-blown musical theater from the back seat. Dramatis personae include a moose, a giraffe, and The Bad Bad Zebra. When hand-puppets start to get old, they become foot-puppets. And the screeching is happy screeching… most of the time.
Witness: Meena puts down her fork and says to me, “Mommy, thank you for making such a yummy dinner.” Really? REALLY? You, my dear, can have spaghetti ANY TIME YOU WANT.
Witness: Boo stops jumping on the bed, points at her sister and declares, “YOU – are my favourite friend.”
I’m not here to take credit for my kids’ awesomeness, the same way I try not to take it personally when there are, well, hints of un-awesomeness. But is it ever nice, once in a while, in the midst of agonizing and questioning every single parenting decision I ever make, to sit back and think “well, I can’t be screwing it up TOO badly.”