I don’t want my kids to remember grand adventures . . . I want them to remember that I was fully present in the moment when they asked me to dig for bugs in the backyard.
I don’t want them to remember me getting them to their soccer game on time . . . I want them to remember how I supported them on the ride home.
I don’t want them to remember the gifts I got them for the holidays . . . I want them to remember the joy within them as they created family traditions.
I don’t want them to remember a mom who sent every single thing back in to school on time . . . I want them to remember the lesson I taught them about perfection, and how no one ever achieves it.
I don’t want them to remember a mom who delivered perfect entrees to the table every night . . . I want them to remember that we always cared about how their day went.
And yet in so many of these moments, I have focused on the former.
These things that society has somehow identified as benchmarks for our success as mothers . . . when in my heart, all I want is for my kids to feel my love in all of the in-between moments.
I want them to remember a human being who made mistakes and forgave herself . . . who fought to listen to and follow her own instincts in a world trying to drown that voice out . . . who fiercely believed in doing the best she could with the things she had, and loved herself no matter what.
Because after all . . . that’s what I want for them one day.
And I want them to remember a mom who showed them how to do it.
Originally published on The Thinking Branch