It's noon and the remnants of a just-eaten breakfast sit beside me. My first mug of charmingly delicious Girl Scout cookie coffee still warm on the other side of me. My carpets are clean - the only symbol of productivity for the day. And I didn't do it.
Max and Ruby, the newest fad around here, is on for the third time. Stuff to preserve the clean carpets, you know. The bossiest of bunny voices lingers. The keys click, my thoughts wander. Discussions with a sweet friend lie beside me. Right next to the breakfast crumbs.
My thoughts lie in the sweeping imaginary pages of my kindle; if I'm lucky, I'll have moments to myself over nap time - organization ideas fills my pinterest boards and not my basement.
Sometimes I wonder why I feel the need to justify lazy days; my favorite ones with my kids snuggled in close, the comfort foods, the snacky meals, and maybe too much television. Guilt creeps in, comparison to the unrealistic portrait that has been painted of moms. Should I be that mom with the highly efficient grocery runs, the flawless errand running, and educational field trips all done in time to have a warm dinner on the table and a pristine house as the husband walks in?
Do you know what I love about being a mom? Making up my own rules that revolve around a simple concept - love. Loving my kids and teaching them to love. Loving hobbies and loving others. Loving the things they do and shown the love they need at home. It's perfectly acceptable to have lazy days in which nothing is accomplished, because those are the days that the unspoken is accomplished. I want my girls to know that there isn't a need for days packed with activities and special trips. The materialistic things and the full calendars aren't fulfilling as they are portrayed. They will remember the snuggly mornings we had on the couch, the days where we had ice cream for dinner just because why not?, and the days they got to spend with me present. The way they were made to feel special in all situations.
I prefer it that way over my clumsy methods of errand running that turns into hours of unorganized adventure and too much time in the car, though everything has its place.
I don't have to do it all, all the time.
I am a happy mom with a happy balance. To them, I am a hero on the days that I successfully create forts that withstand toddler acrobatics, remember their vitamins, and read them stories on end. They take no notice of the mountain of clean laundry that hasn't made it to the closets, the occasional haphazard lunches, or the yogurt streaks across the table.
They are humbling; to them I am amazing. Not subpar and not in comparison to anyone else. I'm transcribing their unwavering adoration on a post it note inside of my brain.
I'm super mom because my kids think I am.