I’m not the perfect mom.

Anyone who reads this blog knows that.

But I’m amazed by the measuring stick I use to gauge my ‘Mother of the Year’ ranking. In fact, according to my measuring stick I rarely pass muster. Why?

Because my measuring stick is a conglomeration of the assumptions I make of all the mom’s around me. I’m great at assumptions. And yes… I know the definition of assume.

All my ‘mom’ friends laugh at the antics of their adorable kids, as if their child has redefined cute. My ‘mom’ friends never run late… but IF they do, it’s simply due to a snafu that morning and isn’t a curse that plagues them no matter what time they rise in the morning. (Which, by the way, is always before dawn… b/c they are Proverbs 31 women, you know.) My ‘mom’ friends spend their evenings in peaceful tranquility b/c nary a cross word is spoken in their home. Certainly a voice is never raised.

Are you laughing yet?

I grew up in front of the boob-tube. My mother never acted like the moms on t.v. Growing up, I assumed that my mom was not the norm. That everyone else had moms like the ones on the other side of the screen. But I have to remember that June Cleaver no longer sets the standard for motherhood, Claire Huxstable only parented 30 minutes at a time, and Jane Jetson was a cartoon.

So… I think my ‘mom’ friends are not as glorious as I make them out to be. And the moms inside the one-eyed monster just aren’t real.