The twelve-year-old in the passenger seat turned his face toward me and said: "Sing a song, Mama, and cheer us up," so I did; I opened my mouth and sang. The little ones behind me quieted, and my young man wiggled his fingers at me.
"See," he said, grinning. "You're magic."
And I am not and have never been magic. Nor long-suffering. Nor organized and scheduled. I fight for happiness, patience. I beat back the piles, never really conquering them, just making dents here and there.
What I am--that is, what I try to be--is wholly myself. I try to live up only to my own standards. That means I choose other things, often, over cleaning. I sleep as much as possible and almost always with my baby. I make time to write out the most important things so my children will know them, someday, also so I won't forget them. I might nurse like crazy, but I don't aspire to diaper in cloth or blend peas for the toothless. I doubt that homeschooling will ever be for me; my young man made it through both fifth and sixth grades without my even knowing he had study cards for SOLs.
All of it is very personal; I don't know another mom who thinks exactly as I or places the exact same emphasis on the exact same things as I. That's ok: good, even.
I'm just trying to live in such a way that I carry a song in my heart, to sing on demand.