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Two years into this and it still seems a little absurd to me that I am someone’s mom. Soon, I’m sure, whoever is in charge is going to realize how ridiculous this is and give my kids to someone more suitable, someone grown up. Because I? Am 12. I laugh at poop jokes, I eat ice cream for dinner, I hate housework, I wear mismatched socks, I can’t do math in my head, I waste hours daydreaming about being famous, I am awkward and forget to brush my hair and never sort my laundry by color.

And yet.. here I am. The mother of two tiny girls, who are depending on me to teach them how to be fully functioning women. It is up to their father (who plays video games, can’t tie a tie, takes coffee with his sugar and owns one pair of shoes) and I to teach them about self worth, about compassion, about the delicate balance of fear and trust. It is up to us to make sure they know how to stand up for themselves, that they know when to walk away from a fight, and that they know we are always in their corner. We somehow have to teach them to be independent, to love fiercely, to value effort, to demand substance, to give sincerely, and to be grateful for the small blessings in their lives.

Or maybe they will learn all of this despite the fact that they have us for parents.

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