by Emma Kirkman

In the first term of the school year my six- and eight-year-old daughters were invited to so many birthday parties the invitations reached double figures. On one weekend alone there were five celebrations, which meant on Monday morning when I arrived at work and was asked how my weekend was, I could only respond with one word: exhausting!

When I explained it was because of the logistics I had to negotiate – how to get from A to B (and C and D), which present belonged to which child (and which card paired with which present) – and the number of kids I hung out with, they responded, “You’re such a great mom!”

I was overcome with the pride I felt at being praised for being a good mother, but you know what I did? Kept the feeling to myself. I had spent years reading books, articles and posts, and following websites and blogs which had me convinced that anyone judging my maternal abilities was doing so based not on the number of parties I took my kids to but on our everyday life.

My colleagues saw a mother who spent time with her children. I was learning to accept that despite what they couldn’t see – when those children went to bed, what their lunch box contained, how much screen time they were exposed to, what extra-curricular activities they participated in, how I disciplined them – this was good enough.

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On any given Monday to Friday I spend the morning yelling at my girls to get ready for school: eat your Nutella toast! Make sure you put your jumper on! Don’t forget your reading diary! Have you got your water bottle? Put your socks and shoes on! Whenever there’s the threat of missing the roll call or not making it to work on time, it’s the same and it’s not unique to my household.

Another mom told me how she was in the shower yelling at her son to hurry up when she wiped away the steam obscuring her view and found him standing in the bathroom with her slippers at his feet. “Mom,” he said, “I’m just putting your slippers here so you don’t have to step on the cold floor when you come out.”

Learning that despite our raised voices (or even because of them) we’ve nurtured nice kids is payment for our hard work. And if we give more praise to our kids, more often, then we’ll continue to reap the rewards.

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In the middle of birthday season, I was sitting at a plastic table in an indoor play center, making small talk with the mothers around me – about friends, teachers, school and what’s on for the weekend while our kids ran amok, screaming as they came down the slippery slide, yelling as they jumped into the colored ball pit. Most of us were wearing jeans and a T-shirt, our hair tied up in a mom-bun, but it was hard not to notice the mother who looked like she’d come straight from the hairdressers. Someone said, “You look nice!” And the rest of us nodded our agreement. Quick as a flash she replied, “It’s lucky you can’t see the state of my mind.”

Our recognition, and her revelation that she’s no different to the rest of us – squeezing in a haircut before escorting her kids to separate parties, and attending a wedding later on – celebrated the efforts of all of us, and showed why we should acknowledge even those moms we don’t know.

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One Saturday morning I read a blog by another mom who told how she took her daughter to speech therapy and when the therapist asked what were her daughter’s first words, she said, “I don’t know. She’s the youngest of three, I can’t remember!”

It happened to me too, except I was in the office when my pregnant colleague asked me, and instead of saying I don’t know, I replied, “I’ll tell you tomorrow!” I was confident the diary I kept for the first year of my daughter’s life would reveal all. Except it doesn’t. When I open the document, I’m reminded that it’s mostly about me.

I’m sure I should have kept a record of my firstborn’s milestones, but you know what’s good? The two of us have a record of how I felt on becoming her mother, how I was simultaneously shocked and awed.

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In the lead up to Mother’s Day, my home filled with the tension of an angst-ridden pre-tween and her heart-on-her-sleeve mom. I thought about the book, Outliers: The Story of Success in which Malcolm Gladwell poses that to be successful you need to practice for 10,000 hours. I turned to my friends. By my calculations, I’ve been a mother for over 70,000 hours, so why do I feel so unsuccessful?

The response of my friends who are also mothers was instant: I am successful. While I needed only to look at my daughters to see this, they told me I should remember children are constantly-changing works-in-progress, that being a mother is a personal journey in which we might be frustrated by our weaknesses and surprised by our strengths.

Some of us happily take our kids to their friend’s birthday party, or we might continue yelling at our kids even though a chore chart is stuck to the wall to prevent arguing over who does what. Others might tell the mom wrangling her children out of the play center she’s doing a good job, or they might remember their daughter’s first words as if it were yesterday.

And, some of us are amazed when being a mother is so good it’s great. When I followed my daughters as they scooted along the city streets after playing a game of soccer overlooking the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I was sated by quality time spent with the ones I love.

Being mom is a balancing act between feeling like we should and embracing the good. The scales always will tip back and forth in favor of one or the other—it won’t make us any less successful, we’ll just be more practiced.

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At the halfway point of the school year, my daughters received their reports and I went to a meeting to discuss their progress. One teacher said, “Your girls are so lovely you should have more so I can teach them too!” “Well then,” I shot back, “I must have done something right!”

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Emma Kirkman is a working mum of two who shares her passion for storytelling at More Than This, a platform that shines a light on who we are and what we can be.

You can also follow her on Facebook.