I’m the best mummy my girls could ever want for. Fact. That’s not to say I’m perfect. And it’s most definitely not to say I’m any more proficient at this mothering malarkey than anyone reading this. But when it comes to my girls, I have the top slot in the mother rankings reserved in my name.
As I said, I’m most definitely not perfect. There are days when I reach for the TV remote in despair and submit to Poppy’s persistent demands to watch Frozen for a second time in a day just to cut down on the lengthy process of negotiating with a belligerent toddler. Neither can I profess to instinctively (or instantly) know what newborn Milly wants merely from the subtle variations in the tone of her cry as the parenting manuals suggest I should. And while I’m on a roll with confessions, I admit it, Cadbury’s Buttons have been used in our household as bargaining currency (and also been guiltily consumed as a late night snack by Mr J and I on more than a couple of occasions).
However, despite these maternal shortcomings, I refuse to give in to any inklings of pesky parental guilt and continue to confidently believe I am 100% the best possible mummy to my girls that I can be. Why? Because if I thought I was delivering anything less, I would be doing a massive diservice to my awesome offspring. They are amazing little girls, deserving of nothing but top rate mothering. And as the only person on the planet who can provide this special service to them, I’m committed to pulling out all the stops to do it better than anyone else could.
There’s no denying the fact that holding onto this confidence, however, can be tricky at times. It’s so easy to judge your worthiness as a mummy against the rules and standards set by so-called parenting gurus and the picture perfect images of family life we all promote on our social media pages (just because those 2am scream-a-thons and dinnertime food battles don’t make Facebook walls doesn’t mean they don’t happen in even the most idyllic looking families). But then I remember to be the best mum ever requires me to be just as wonderfully individual and unpredictable as my little bundles of chaotic joy. There is no textbook comparison; there are no standards to judge myself against except for the happiness of my daughters, the laughter resonating in our house, the ability of a mummy cuddle to dry tears and the love and affection we have for each other. And based on these measures, I’m passing the test with flying colours.
So on Mothering Sunday, I will be feeling proud to be one of an impressive army of dedicated, rule-breaking, seat-of-our-pants improvising, constantly learning and always loving mummies I know. Happy Mother’s Day!