As good as it gets

I have really great kids.

I often lose sight of that because my vision is obstructed by the weeds in which I constantly find myself. If you have children, you may understand. When you're entrenched in the campaign of teaching manners, kindness, empathy, generosity and general public decency (no, son, it's actually not okay for you to drop trow and water the pear tree in the front yard), you tend to overlook what outsiders can easily see.

Friends, acquaintances, babysitters and strangers have all told me at various points in time and in various ways that I have good kids. And I know that, in general, they're right. Sure they have their moments, but don't we all? Some of my finer ones can be seen in the twice-re-glued kitchen drawer that I have a tendency to slam ferociously when my crab cakes turn to crab fricassee or a bottle of nail polish shatters all over the bathroom floor creating a circa-1982 feather duster paint effect on the walls.

My reality check comes when I read and hear about kids who have four alarm meltdowns over crust on their bread or who repeatedly lay hands on classmates. With both sides of my brain having been fully operational for more then a decade, I forget that the same can't be said of my kids. At least they can play the developmental appropriateness card when they indulge their tempers. Wish I could say the same when I indulge my drawer-slamming addiction.

So thanks, kids, for making your mommy proud and making her job as a parent comparatively easy. 98% of the time.