I get on myself a lot for my mothering skills...go to bed thinking of all the ways I've surely done damage to my kids and how much therapy they'll need as adults and all that. But every once in a while I get a little reminder that maybe, just maybe, I'm doing an OK job of this...that my kids will survive the dumb luck of being born to me and all my failings.
Me: "I love you, babe!"
Little guy: "I know. I love me, too!"
And perhaps if I hold on to this I'll go to bed tonight and rest well in the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, my kids will turn out OK.
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