I don't wake up in the morning and think about what kind of mother I'm going to be. On most days, like most mothers, I turn on auto pilot and just go about the business of raising my children the best that I know how.
Sometimes, more often than I admit, it's wrapped up tightly in a bow, so sweet that you can taste its goodness in a chubby cheek, a crooked grin, or your face buried in a mop of hair that smells like nothing words can really describe.
On others, it's a bloody massacre that requires all of what you have left to pick up the pieces and fashion them back together into something other than a heaping pile of stinky shit.
Parenting is a dance of give and take, wins and losses, ups and downs, belly flops and beautiful pirouettes.
And no matter how lovely your spins are, on most days, I'd much rather hear the sound of your post partum belly slapping against the water producing a big huge gigantic splash that nearly drowns half the kids at the pool.
So while you might not agree that bad is the new good, it sure as hell makes me laugh, and it reminds me that I'm not the only idiot out there that still doesn't know how to dive.