Reading an article about difficult mothers in my latest issue of Psychology Today the other day didn’t help this deep-seated fear, let me tell you. Now I’m more paranoid than ever about my mothering abilities. I should probably dub myself the Hypochondriac of Parenting Mistakes.

I think the root of my fear resides mostly in the fact that I spent the better part of a year in a horrible depression. Even though it was something over which I had no control, I feel guilty about it to this day, and probably always will.

It started when I was pregnant with Logan, when it was all I could do to get myself out of bed in the morning, let alone take care of my then-5-year-old twins and 1-year-old son. I was a virtual zombie. I spent many days in my pajamas, not bothering to do anything with my hair or face. People kept telling me how terrible I looked. Out of necessity, my daughters learned how to make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Once I gave birth, Logan’s newborn neediness and sweet demeanor helped keep me going. He evolved into the easiest, most peaceful baby in the universe and I came out of my shell little by little, with the help of medication, therapy and my kids.

I look back at that period as one of the darkest of my life. It breaks my heart when I think about how fast my girls had to grow up and assume responsibility that they never should have had to because their mother — me — couldn’t function right or well.

Even though in my head I know I was sick and unable to just buck up and be happy, I feel regret and shame. My head knows that the extenuating personal circumstances going on in my life at the time sparked and kindled my struggle with depression, but that isn’t enough to assuage the feelings of failure, no matter how temporary my failure was.

I have days when I think I’m a pretty darn good mom, especially after being around other people’s kids (ever notice how that almost always makes a parent grateful for her own kids?). My own children tell me I’m a great mom, though I imagine the window for that sort of comment is short, considering my daughters are months away from being teenagers.

But I’m painfully aware of my shortcomings, my many flaws and the fact that no matter how hard I try, I will fail them all in one way or another. The best I can do is to try my hardest, let them know that I love them beyond measure and hope that when they grow up, any wounds I left can be healed by their knowledge that I did, indeed, do my best.

Next: How my depression affected Miss Type-A.

Ha! As if I do everything.

I’m so incredibly far from being on top of it all, which anyone who knows me in real life would completely and totally vouch for.

Case in point:

My floor is vacuumed, but my dishwasher is full of clean dishes while my sink is full of dirty ones.

My office is fairly clean, but my bedroom looks like a bomb went off.

My front yard is mowed, but only half the back yard is. Don’t even mention the sides of the driveway.

The other day, Cody went out the door with a completely mismatched shirt and shorts and I didn’t notice until several hours later.

I often get involved in something and have no trouble sucking up several hours before I realize how much time I’ve just invested or, worse, wasted.

More often than not, my laundry pile is overflowing.

My kids sometimes have to remind me that it’s meal time because I’ve gotten so caught up in what I’m doing.

I always have a huge to-do list and am lucky to get just a few things on it completed by the day’s end.

I can, and do, beat myself up about not getting everything accomplished, and, truth be told, I could do many things better, but why spend all my time feeling guilty?

Here’s how I see it: Life is hard. It’s full of pain and sorrow and loss. So one of my biggest philosophies is to enjoy it as much as possible. That means not getting overly stressed-out about things that don’t matter in the big picture. So what if I don’t do the dishes until the morning, when the kids get on the bus to go to school? Night time is my productive writing time and I’m going to take advantage of that. It’s not how my mom would do it, or how most other people I know would do it, but it works for me. I waste enough time feeling guilty without picking up extra reasons.

Being flexible as a parent also means being flexible with yourself. It’s impossible to be on top of everything, all the time, and if you are, your relationships are definitely suffering. Do what works for you and your family. The goal here is to raise happy, healthy, responsible, mature, honest, contributing adults, right? Make that happen however you need to.

Most importantly, don’t beat yourself up if your house isn’t sparkling and your laundry is about ready to crawl to the washer by itself. I think Erma Bombeck said it best when (to paraphrase) she said that she’d rather have a messy house and good memories with her kids than to keep it spotless and spend all her time worrying about keeping it that way.

What are some of the ways in which you, too, are NOT Super Mom? Come on, ‘fess up!

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It’s harmony. I love that word, the way it sounds when I think of it, the feelings it inspires, the images it evokes, images like this one:

It’s a bit hard to see because I was upstairs and took the picture out the window as quickly and sneakily as I could so the kids wouldn’t see me, but that’s the four of them (and our Yorkie-Poo, Remy) just a while ago swinging, eating Icees and singing “Down By the Bay.” I adore scenes like this. I just can’t stop smiling, it touches my heart so much.

Of course shortly thereafter, Cody came slamming into the house wailing because his sisters were going to “force” him (his words) to watch “Robin Hood” tonight. Sigh. So much for the short-lived peacefulness.

How do you define harmony in your home? What sorts of moments make you smile?

Today I was headed to town by myself, blasting “High School Musical 2” and singing in that loud and obnoxious way you do when you’re alone. By the time Track 5 started though, it occurred to me that perhaps it’s not totally normal to listen to the kids’ music when they’re not even in the vicinity, but hey — sometimes a girl’s just got to sing!

(In case you’re not familiar with the “High School Musical 2″ soundtrack, the best songs on it are “I Don’t Dance” and “Bet On It.” My kids agree — these two are the most requested tracks when we have that particular CD in the player.)

In the past, I’ve also been known to pop in “Wee Sing Silly Songs,” a cassette tape (remember those?) we had when the kids were much younger, and, yes, of course, sing along. Now that my kids have them all on CD, I also like to listen to the set of  kids’ records (I know, I’m showing my age) my sisters and I grew up on. The most popular of them was “Music Machine,” versions 1 and 2. These CDs, despite the lack of needle scratching and skipping, just feel like home to me because we constantly had one or another of them on.

Just don’t laugh if you pass me on the road while I’m rocking out to “Work This Out.” When you’re forced to listen to the kids’ music as often as a lot of us parents are (“Hannah Montana,” anyone?), you can’t help having it grow on you a bit, particularly when you’re still a kid at heart anyway.

Anyone else willing to confess? What kiddie CDs are your guilty pleasures?

And, as little kids are always prone to do, the boys both got up with the sun this morning, despite the extremely late hour of their retirement last night.

I knew this was going to be a rough day.

I was right.

Thankfully the following only happened during our Vacation Bible School program practice and not the actual program.

Despite the fact that I was sitting several pews away from him, Logan somehow got it into his head that he “missed” me and proceeded to sob through the entire run-through. Never mind that he was one of the older kids in the bunch, his drama queen antics were worthy of an Oscar nomination.

Luckily, I had my camera along so I could capture his meltdown for posterity.

The meltdown

Yes, I was full of pride as the other teachers and I sat there watching my son freak out and his wails begin to get steadily louder.

And more pride-inducing hysterics

An hour later, when the kids actually put on their program for the parents and grandparents, he was at the opposite end of the spectrum. Reminding me once again of the SNL skit with the hyper-hypo Mike Myers (if you haven’t seen it, you simply must click the link), Logan looked like he was on a sugar, caffeine and speed high all at once and in dire need of a sedative, if not a tranquilizer. The audience was actually laughing at his crazy movements, head nodding up and down, arms and legs all over the place.  Unfortunately, I forgot to bring my camera to the program in my haste to get my 3-year-olds down to the church, so I have no actual documentation.

I’m really not sure if I wouldn’t have preferred the crying…

Where’s the weirdest/most interesting/most embarrassing place your child has had a meltdown?

A little background here: My mother had three daughters and no sons. My maternal grandmother had two daughters and no sons. My maternal great-grandmother had three girls, no boys. Even my paternal grandmother only had one boy and three girls. I knew my chances of having a boy were probably not very good since genetics do seem to determine some of this (i.e., a bad environment for the Y sperm).

This was why I was so anxious to know the gender of my babies. I wanted to have a boy first so I could be sure I’d get one. Growing up with girls, I’d always gotten along much better with boys, and I was dying to have a son of my own so I could see what life with boys in the house was like. I’ve also always admired the mother/son bonds I’ve seen and wanted to experience it for myself.

When I found out my babies were both girls some weeks later, I have to admit, I was deeply disappointed. After all, I was fulfilling the destiny I always knew I would — being a producer of only female offspring.

Of course that all changed once I saw them. I no longer cared that they were girls, even if they could be the only children I’d ever have. I fell in love with them, their little-girl clothes and shoes, their little-girl hair, and I loved how easy it was to relate to them.

I adore having daughters, which is quite unexpected and, frankly, awesome. Every stage brings with it new discoveries about them, different ways to relate and yet another facet to their ever-growing personalities. It’s fascinating to watch them grow up, make decisions, learn responsibility and become more and more independent.

We all know though that a girl’s open love and admiration for her mother abruptly end when she turns 12 or 13 and her mother becomes the stupidest and most embarrassing person on the planet. I mean, mother/daughter friction is just going to happen, right? It makes me sad to think about my daughters, who currently profess that I’m the best mom ever and still openly admire and love me, being constantly annoyed and smart-mouthed.

I’ll just hope that we can keep the momentum going and stay close throughout those tough years. If not, then I only have one good year left, two, if I’m lucky.

Whatever happens, I am eternally grateful that I have been blessed with my daughters.

Did you have a strong preference for your kids to be a certain gender? If so, why?

If you have or have had teenage girls, are/were you able to make it through those friction-filled times with your relationship fairly intact? If so, how did you do it?

Having the boys gone also gives me a small glimpse into what life would be like had the kids’ dad and I stuck with our original plan of having only two kids. After having twins sort of disrupted those plans (I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it, having twins is a lot like having one really complicated child), we debated heavily on whether or not we should have any more little ones.

Times were simpler when there were just the two of them and sometimes I miss those days very much. Hanging out with my girls has been quite enjoyable and oddly nostalgic. It makes me miss what seems like a much easier era, when my little girls and I would sit in the yard and pick “flowers” (actually dandelions), I’d push them on the swings, take them on daily walks, read them as many books as their hearts desired, watch their delight at the circus and buy little girl clothes and shoes. It was just us for four years and I got to know them well, probably much better than I’ll ever know my boys.

There are definitely advantages to having just two children, the biggest one being that a parent has far more opportunity for one-on-one time and really getting to understand a child. It’s just plain harder with more kids. Everything has been practically effortless with the boys gone, both because the girls are very independent and because there are just two of them. Less mess, less food to make, less laundry to do, less people to get out the door…it has been blissfully easy.

Still, I would never give any of my kids up (most days, anyway). As chaotic as it can get with four of them, I can’t imagine life without any of them. Yes, the craziness can sometimes make me want to run away screaming and crying, but I actually feel more at ease in the noise and disorder than I do when everything’s unnaturally clean and quiet.

Chaos = life, and I want to always have a house full of life and laughter.

How does the dynamic change in your family when someone is gone?

Truth be told, I was jealous of their relationship. I didn’t understand how Mom could be so cuddly and sweet with Trina while doling out my chore list. It seemed grossly unfair that she favored Trina just because she was the youngest.

But, as is true with most parenting-related matters, I now understand what was going on there. It wasn’t that she favored Trina, at least I don’t think she did, it’s just that moms have a special connection with the baby of the family, particularly when they know he/she is definitely the last child. Mom knew Trina was her last.

I knew Logan was my last as well and I’m the same way with him. I cuddle and hold him far more than the others. It’s almost embarrassing to admit, but even though he’s 5, I still carry him up and down the stairs if he wants me to. I help him get dressed and brush his teeth as well. It’s not that he needs help, and I don’t always do it, but I know it won’t be long before he won’t want me to do any of these things and I’ll miss those days. I plan to enjoy them as long as I can.

It doesn’t mean I favor him. I love all my kids equally, but (full disclosure here) I like certain ones more on some days than others. I just feel a strong bond with Logan that’s different from what I feel with the other kids. It’s not more powerful or better, my bond with each child is unique in its own way.

Sometimes when I’m holding Logan I catch a glimpse of the two of us in the mirror and I’m shocked to see that his legs are hanging past my knees, but he’s still my baby. I’m betting that even when he’s taller than me and getting married and having children of his own I will still feel the same way.

It’s cliché, but they just grow up too fast, don’t they?

Do you have a special bond with your “baby?”

Cody went to preschool with Jacob and because our families are friends, knew him fairly well. He was quite upset when he found out that Jacob had passed away. I guess it hit a little too close to home for him, just as it did for me.

Up until recently he referred to Jacob’s passing on occasion, peppering me with questions, and expressing a deep fear of death, particularly the burial part. He summed up his thoughts on dying one day last fall.

“Mom, I wish I could be a candle so I won’t have to die.”

That’s the last I’ve heard from him about the subject.

Have your kids experienced the death of a close friend or family member? How did they express their grief and fear?

Logan has a perpetually runny nose and rather than taking the enormous effort and amount of time it evidently takes to find a Kleenex, he uses his sleeve. The kid has crusty sleeves on a daily basis. To be fair, I had a constant runny nose as a kid too and I remember doing the same thing. Snot-coated arms just aren’t that repulsive when you’re a kid.

Entering Logan’s preschool classroom to pick him up, I’ll come upon several kids with their fingers up to the last knuckle in their noses, one scratching her rear end frantically, a host of slimy green noses, some with goo dripping down to lips where a miniature pink tongue periodically flicks out to catch it, not to mention the questionable substances adorning most of the kids’ clothing. These descriptions do not exclude my son, by the way.

Their grimy little hands are the worst. After a day with other kids, they’re visibly filthy and carrying who-knows-what sorts of viruses. I always make my kids wash their hands when they get home from school to wash off the “school germs.”

God bless them though, little kids don’t have an itch they don’t scratch, a bodily function they squelch, or an impulse they don’t indulge. And as gross and impolite as they can be, when they’re your own, it’s impossible not to hug, kiss and squeeze them anyway.

All while trying to avoid touching the crusty sleeves, of course.

What are some of the gross things your child does (like using his sleeves as a Kleenex)?