Last year on Mother's Day I was sick in bed with pneumonia. At some point in the afternoon I made my way downstairs in my sweats, looking as crummy as I felt. My husband was outside doing yard work and my two oldest daughters were fighting over a sticker book.
I had no patience. In a bout of serious immaturity (mine, not theirs), I grabbed the sticker book, ripped it in half, and cough-yelled a threat that, if I recall, went something like this: "If this sticker book is going to get in the way of you two treating each other well, then no one will have the sticker book. We'll never have stickers in our house ever again if they cause you to treat each other badly. Do you understand?"
And I ripped the sticker book into pieces, letting the shreds drop to the floor.
They stared at me. I stared at them. They began crying.
I stomped back up to my room, laid on the bed, and began crying too.
My husband entered the house and found three distraught women. Poor man.
Moments like this happen, even on Mother's Day. Being a mother isn't about being perfect. Give up on perfect. Despite my parenting flaws -- and I could provide a list of them -- the truth of the matter is this: I love my children and my children love me.
Love covers a multitude of mistakes.
Happy Mother's Day to all of you. What you do is so very valuable.