Real Moms Have Tattoos

Part of me didn't believe that the person I was deserved to be a mother. Someone who sometimes drank too much. And who often said the wrong thing. And who hadn't always made good choices in life.

All I had to do was change everything about who I was. Transform myself into a "mother" and everything would be just fine.

But after I actually became a mother, something kept poking at my heart. Wouldn't I love my babies no matter what? Didn't I want my babies to feel comfortable with who they are? To never feel as though something is wrong with them because they may be (or feel) different? To know that no matter what life throws at them, at least their mom will always be there, loving and accepting them? (As long as it doesn't hurt them or anyone else, of course.)

But, how could I expect my kids to be honest with who they are, and love all of their quirks, if they grew up with a mom who believed who she was wasn't good enough?

So I am learning to embrace my inner freak. That's why I started this blog. I got a tattoo. I took my kids to renaissance festivals, in costume. I drank Mountain Dew right there in front of them (and told them that when they are grown-ups they too can choose to introduce acidic sugar poison into their systems, or hopefully not). I listened to my Ani DiFranco albums as I drove them to Kindermusik. I let them rock out to Nirvana (and The Wiggles). I will continue to wear this shirt.

Because being myself and doing the best I can is more important than living up to society's version of a perfect mom. Besides, mom jeans make my ass look huge.

Thanks to Jennifer for the Real Moms tag. Tagging you, Jane, Dana, and Kristy (who may have to write "Real Moms Don't Have Time to Blog So Quit Tagging Me, Bitch").