Give me your poor, your tired, your puke-stained masses...

For quite some time now, I've read the mom-blogs published in various parenting magazines. I appreciate these women (and sometimes men) for allowing a candid peek at what their lives as parents are like. I especially like the ones who aren't afraid to admit that raising children isn't all peaches and sunshine; that at some point you will very seriously consider checking yourself into a nut house.

I guess I like to know that I'm not the only one who's not perfect. I too am guilty of some shameless parenting infractions. I've dug out the four month old Halloween candy and plopped the runts in front of SpongeBob to buy me a little extra time with whatever I'm doing. After hours of listening to one kid complain about the other hitting or kicking her, I told her to just hit back. I've underestimated the mobility of my chunky little baby boy who learned to wiggle his way out of his swing while I was taking my 30-second shower. So that's what the straps are for.

Overall I'm a good parent. I love my children unconditionally, I feed them at least two (sometimes three) semi-nutritious meals a day, and woe to anyone who dare even look at my kids wrong. But I swear, there are some days that in order to preserve my sanity I have to picture a countdown timer ticking the seconds away until they turn 18. Then one of them will come tell me I am the beautifulest mom in the whole world - puke-stained sweatpants and all - and I'll wish I could stop the clock and keep them just the way they are now.