Three times. Three. That's how many times I started this blog post today. I get about a paragraph in and then I change my mind, or reconsider my words, and then I end up all side-tracked and emo and boring and pleh. Nobody really wants to read about my latest existential crisis, least of all me. Trust me, I know.
So here's the thing: I was going to write about how lately I've been wondering if I'm a good parent. Like, our inconsistent rules regarding Shae and when and what and how much television -- are they going to ruin her chances of getting into a good college someday? Do we make a bigger deal than we should about making her eat "people food" for supper instead of peanut butter sandwiches and yogurt? Should we start making her do chores? How bad is it really that I let her watch me playing World of Warcraft? When is the right time to give her an account of her own?
Even though I'm totally crazypants and borderline delusional and more than a little bit self-indulgent, still and all, I worry about whether I am doing a good job, motheringwise. Don't think that I don't know and appreciate that we were given an absolute once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with this kid, in the truest sense of the phrase. I love her more than life, more than anything, more than the moon, and I want to do right by her.
And then I look through the eleventy jillion pictures on my hard drive, and I see how many of them show her smiling and happy and all-around awesome, and I realize something: maybe God really does trust and believe in me, after all.