I want to be the mom that lets my baby eat dirt occasionally. You know, the type that doesn’t freak out over the little things. I want to be the mom that lets my baby discover things on his own. Even if that means a few scabby knees now and then that I later kiss, clean, and cover with a spiderman bandaid.
I want to be the mom that makes a big freaking deal out of birthdays. Not the pinterest-shabby-chic-vintage-party kind of deal but the kind of deal where my baby is SO excited to wake up on his birthday because he knows what’s coming. He knows there will be chocolate chip pancakes and confetti and a trip to the zoo and juice boxes galore. He knows he’ll be allowed to stay up past his bedtime and eat extra dessert and *possibly* skip his nightly bath. Yes. I want to be the mom who makes a big freaking deal out of birthdays.
I want to be the mom who teaches my son to love everyone, regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation, insert difference here _________. I want to be the mom who teaches my son that it’s not okay to judge other people based on those differences, but that it’s our job to love people like Christ loves people. I want to be the mom who cares more about that lesson than anything he learns in algebra class.
Speaking of algebra class, I want to be the mom who helps with homework. And by that I mean I want to secretly look up the answers on my iPad and pretend to possess the knowledge all along so my son will respect me.
I want to be the mom who always has the good snacks. And the good juice boxes. I want to be the cool mom.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want to be the mom who knows how to throw a football. I have plenty of time to learn, right?
I want to be the mom who asks all the right questions at the right times. Questions about girls and friends and drugs and sex and all of those kinds of awkward questions that need to be addressed at some point.
I want to be an imperfect mom. The mom that makes mistakes, forgets dentist appointments, and occasionally burns dinner. I want to embrace that imperfect-ness and own it. Every day.
I want to be the kind of mom that helps other moms, and refuses to partake in competition mompetition.
I want to be the kind of mom that is a damn good wife, first and foremost.
And perhaps most of all,
I want to be the mom who loves hard—unconditionally—the person her son grows up to be, knowing full well that God designed him that way for a reason.
I start the gig in five weeks. Wish me luck.
