By far, my biggest insecurity isn’t regarding any physical attribute. It isn’t about how well I fill out or don’t fill out my jeans. It only concerns one thing, and one thing only: Being a mother. Very often, more often than I would like to, I have insecurities about the most important job in my life… I wonder if I’m being a good mother and most of the time I’m beating myself up telling myself that I could’ve done better with one thing or the other. Maybe I’m chasing perfection, and of course bound for failure, or maybe I can grow and become a better parent one day at a time. I don’t know which one it is or if it’s a little bit of both but what I’m absolutely, without a single doubt, sure about is that I often suffer from moms-guilt when I take longer than usual at school or work, or when I want to spend some time reading a good book or blogging. I always feel guilty when I rather watch one of my movies or shows, which are not appropriate for the kiddies, than to watch Toy Story for the tenth time. These things don’t happen all the time. I make time for my children everyday but when they do occur I can’t help but to feel guilty.
As I looked out the window, I thought about all kinds of things. I asked myself if things would’ve been different had I had my children later in life and not at such a young age. Here I am still growing and evolving and being a parent to two boys. It’s not an easy job, but then again it’s not an easy job at any age. I also thought about my parents; how much I love and respect them and while I reminisced about them, I learned something about being a parent. I learned that if I’m even questioning whether or not I’m a good parent, chances are that I am. Bad parents don’t wonder if they’re doing a good job. They simply don’t care. I also learned that taking time out for myself isn’t bad either. What matters is that I try to spend time with them as often as I can and that I’m there for all the important things.
I remember when I would ask my mother to play a game with me and she would often tell me no, either because the novelas were on, or because she didn’t know how the game was played. My mother wasn’t the most attentive mother, but she always showed me she cared. She was there every time I was sick; to take me to the doctor, and to make sure I got well soon. She was always there to defend me from anyone and I always felt protected. My father was always an excellent provider; whatever I needed, he was there to make sure I got it. It was him, who I always coerced into playing with me and he was always there to listen to me ramble on about my school day. They were both very supportive: there for every talent show, every science fair, and every parent-teacher conference.
My parents were there for me just like I’m there for my kids, comforting them when they’re sick, taking them to the doctors, making that chicken noodle soup. I give them smiles, kisses, and hugs on a daily basis. And yes, while I stand here and ask myself, “Am I spending enough time with them?” “Am I being too strict?” or “Am I not fun enough?” I am also telling myself that my kids appreciate any time I spend with them, whether it’s taking them to a birthday party or a short conversation during dinnertime. They love me because they know that I will be there to protect them, to guide them, to listen to them, and to simply love them.
I will always be there for all the things that matter. I just have to take it one day at a time.
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