People say you can’t be your child’s friend. They say there’s a fine line between being a “fun” parent and not behaving parent-ally. I don’t know where that line is. Probably under all of the laundry I’m not doing.
I found myself in an “oh-shit-I’m-going-to-have-a-baby?” kind of way at a pretty young age. Not 16 And Pregnant young, but I was definitely still an immature little shit. I’ve been winging it ever since. No, seriously. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I swear a lot (oh, you hadn’t noticed?). I don’t really have a filter between my brain and mouth. And I have definitely turned to my daughter when she’s being a nutjob and said things like “What the hell, man?”.
These moments aren’t shining parenting moments. I normally berate myself internally afterwards because, seriously, “What the hell, man?”. But then I just watch Gilmore Girls and Lorelai makes me feel a lot better about myself. Who needs self-help books when there’s Netflix.
My kids are alive, they’re happy, they’re healthy, they’re thriving. Yes, sometimes they don’t really seem to take me seriously. Sometimes strangers in public tell me I’m a great big sister (but that’s probably because most mothers don’t get stuck in children’s riding cars at the toy store). And sometimes I have week-long panic attacks thinking about how I’m going to deal with raising teenagers when I feel like I still am one. But I’m doing my best and I’m doing it with freaking buttloads of love, so I’m pretty sure that automatically gives me a few free passes. Love conquers all, or something like that.