Every night before she goes to bed,

my youngest,

five,

tells me I'm "the best mommy in the world."

And that couldn't be farthest from the truth.

I tell her that

"Mommy makes mistakes, lots of them, and that, really, I could [and should] do better"

as her and her siblings' mama.

She doesn't let me get away with that.

She won't accept that.

She declares my greatness once again,

and I,

in the name of a timely bedtime,

accept the overgenerous recognition,

and then spend the rest of my evening wonder why God thought me worthy to be the mother to these sweet, grace-giving children --my children, who deserve, but don't want, better.

And as I lay in my bed talking to God, he tells me this:

"There is no one better for your kids than you. There is no better life for them than the one you are providing. And just as my child, you screw up, and I still love you and believe in you, so do they."

You know, having a child is like living your life staring into a mirror and noticing

every.single.one.of.your.faults.

And knowing they are visible to everyone else, too.

But that mirror,

the one that follows you around,

the one you can't escape,

it's what reflects to you

all that you are and all that you're not,

which is what allows you to become

who you want to be and who you're meant to be,

and that woman, she is a human absolutely worthy of a "Best Mom in the World" title.
My little nugget won't always feel this way about me.

She's got a ten-year-old sister and a seven-year-old brother who are teetering on the brink of no longer finding me to be

cool,

fun,

any hit of awesome,

or even close to "the best."

But then,

one day,

when they're older,

those thoughts will return for all of them, I hope, and I pray that at that time, I'll still be worthy of them.

That somehow,

someway,

all that I've done

and I'll that I didn't do,

it was both right and enough.

Making me just right and enough, forever and always, for these three of mine.