Most of the time, I don’t know what I’m doing.

And half of that time I’m certain that I’m doing it all wrong.

I don’t make dinners from scratch every night.
Doing homework makes me irritable.
I know my stress levels make me a crabby mom sometimes.
I raise my voice more than I should.
I don’t always want to cuddle.
They watch too much television.
My answers to their questions are sometimes way too blunt.
They don’t drink enough water.

I have more negative self talk about my parenting than any other aspect of my life…

My kids are weird and I tell them so. Annoying. Their social skills seem askew to me. Sometimes they get me so frustrated I could launch myself into a wall. But I don’t. I am attempting to raise good people, release good souls into the world. I want them to understand that the way you treat others is more important than being treated by others. I want my children to be kind, show empathy, be mentally strong and have hearts that they don’t mind sharing.

But somehow, by God’s grace or good genes or magic, these kids thrive. They possess imagination out of this world. They love big. They smile a lot. They have lots of personality. No, they aren’t perfect, but they are loving and smart and funny. We laugh a lot. We aren’t traditional. We don’t have everything we want, sometimes don’t even have everything we need, but we survive. With love.

We are a family.
Built by me.
Procrastinating, introspective, unassuming, messy me.

I did that.