Why Your Kids don’t Need a SuperMama

Written by Ann Voskamp


When one of the boys pulls off his Sunday shoes, the filthy ones ridiculously still clinging to “Sunday Shoes” status, he catches my eye and grins like he’s swallowed a canary.

“So I only wore one sock to church.”

What are you going to do but laugh with the grinning kid?

Yeah, I am that Mom…

Yeah, after 18 years, there it is:

I have been the mama who’s punished when I needed to pray.

Who’s hollered at kids when I needed to help kids.

Who’s lunged forward — when I should have leaned on Jesus.

There are dishes stacked on the counter like memories and paint smeared on the table and there are kids sprawled on the couch trying to read the same book at the same time — and there is only so much time. 

I never expected love to be like this. I never expected so much joy. I never expected to get so much wrong. It’s what my Mama’s said to me a thousand times if she’s said it to me once. “It’s not that you aren’t going to get things wrong — it’s what you do with it afterward.“

So you clear off the table and the dishes and the leftover spinach leaves and wash the paint fingerprint off the mess of chairs, and you pick up the socks and shoes strewn through the house like crusty droppings in the park.

And then you swing from the monkey bars in the almost dark with the kids almost grown and you pray that your post-half-a-dozen-babies bladder doesn’t give way leaky on you now, and you laugh so loud you hope they always remember.

There is still light.

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