I'm a rather strict parent.  I potty train early.  I don't use the word "proud" often.  I rarely buy my children toys.  I can't stand the thirty-minutes of TV my kids watch while I prepare dinner each night.  I dislike the words, "this isn't fair" and "we are the only ones..." and "you are the worst mom ever, ever."

And so I say to them, "I love you too much to argue."  (Thanks Mary for my newest mantra.)

But I often wonder if all that I believe in and struggle to implement will leave a lasting impression on my children.  And what kind of impression that will be?  Am I being too hard on them when I remind them to pick up their toys or my vacuum will?  I have softened up a little as a disciplinarian, admitting on more occasions then I can link to that the third child runs loose.  So, in the end, this parenting thing leaves me with more questions and I find myself re-evaluating my motives.  Every single day.

Tonight, however, I was reminded that my children might not be headed down the path to therapy after all.

Lola whined this evening "I want a very real dinner tonight.  With lots of choices in the middle like rice and meat and vegetables.  In the dinning room with a tablecloth and real napkins and glass glasses and I will do it all myself because I really like that.  I want us to sit and eat in the fancy chairs and not at the kitchen table. Pleeeeeease?"

So I said to her,  "I love you too much to argue."

And, you know what?  She was right.  Regardless of the fact that the spoiled baby wore a swimsuit two sizes too big to our fancy family dinner because no one dared to question her motives, the "real" dinner was just what I needed tonight.  A gentle reminder that I'm really not failing at this gig.

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