Better Than Mother's Day....

So, there are lots of parts of being a mom that I completely suck at.

For example, this is what my couch looks like on laundry day.





Ok, fine, it's more like laundry week. Folded clothes are overrated.

 
And this is the closest we usually come to a decent family picture. Notice Mia is crying the dog is trying to escape and I look like I just backhanded someone.




I take comfort knowing that someday this picture will be featured in a Mommy Dearest style memoir penned by one of my adorable children. Ah, memories.

  Also my children all lie. No really. They lie constantly about things like brushing their teeth and stealing candy. And I take full responsibility because I was a liar too. I haven't had the heart to tell my husband that the lying gene totally comes from my side of the family. (You're welcome, Ken.)

So, when Mia told me that she was reading Meet Molly, one of my old American Girl Doll books every night before she went to bed, naturally, with all of my amazing maternal instinct and intuition, I assumed she was lying through her teeth. I didn't even really hold it against her because the book is pretty tough for a first grader to read and as a skilled liar I'm well practiced in the art of fake reading. Moby Dick? A masterpiece! The 50 Shades of Grey trilogy? Racy! Twilight? Loved it!

OK, fine, I actually read the entire Twilight series, but you get the idea. I just assumed that Mia was skimming her way through Molly's story and looking at the pictures. And because I'm an awesome mom, I thought it might be fun to catch her in the lie.

Me: "So Mia, how's that book you're reading?"

 Mia: "It's good. I like it."

Me: "Oh, yeah. I bet. So what's going on in the book? Tell me about it..."

If you're picturing me rubbing my hands together and twirling my mustache here, you're totally on point.

Mia: "Well, it's kind of sad. Molly's dad is in the war and she has to eat turnips and she really hates turnips and her neighbor has a victory garden."

It was right at victory garden where I lost it. Literally just started crying. Mia was reading that damn book. Not only that, she remembered it. And she sounded like she actually liked it.

Now most mothers might feel terribly guilty for doubting their child in the first place, but me? I felt like mother of the year. My daughter is reading a book. A real book about wars and turnips and victory gardens. And I'm the one who put the book on her nightstand. I'm the one who suffered through endless readings of I Wish I Had Duck Feet that involved over thousands of stuttered, mangled ways to sound out the word duck. I'm the one who grew up reading in front of my nightlight.

And maybe, just maybe, since she inherited my talent for lying, she'll also get my love for books. And for that one, tiny moment, all the piles of unfolded laundry, all the failed photo shoots, all the little white lies - don't matter because I'm raising a reader.

I'll take that moment over neatly pressed clothes and perfect snapshots any day, especially on Mother's Day.