I'm not the best mom.

I yell a lot.

I send them to time out.

I make them clean their rooms, put away their toys, and fold their laundry.

I make them take daily baths, complete with washing their hair. It's a nightmare for them.

I insist that they give 110% in everything they do; homework, sports, school plays. If you're not giving your best, why even bother?

I nag...constantly. Don't do it that way, do it this way. Mother knows best after all.

I make them say yes ma'am, no ma'am, please and thank you. I hate bad manners, and I don't want anyone thinking I'm raising ungrateful brats.

I'm hard on them. Sometimes a little too hard. Sometimes I push them too far. I expect more than I should.

Sometimes I forget to let them be little. I forget that they're still babies...my babies. Wise beyond their years, I expect so much more maturity from them than I should.

But my gosh, I love them more life itself. I would walk through fire, swim the oceans, breathe my last breath for them.

I would take away every ounce of hurt, every ounce of pain, every disappointment they've ever known if I could.

Their happiness is paramount to my own. I cry for them, worry for them, pray for them with everything in me.

I'm not the best mom. I could do more. I could hug more, laugh more, play more. I could give more of myself to them each day.

But my love for them could move mountains, and I hope that it's enough. Even on the worst days, I hope I'm still enough. I couldn't possibly love them more if I tried.

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