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Sometimes I feel like I'm playing house.

Just playing house and patiently waiting for the real grown ups to show up.

Looking for someone to leave me a To Do list and a schedule for the rest of my life.

And when I stop and realize that this is real and that I'm mistakenly the one in charge, 

I get a lump in my throat.

When is somebody going to realize that I have no idea what I'm doing?

That I'm just pretending to be mature enough to raise a teenager.

That I'm really not sure that I'm tough enough to raise 3 sons.

That I'm definitely not patient enough to watch myself do this.

{That I'm still afraid of the dark.}

When and how did I get here?

My driver's license assures me that I'm old enough.

My weakened bladder reaffirms daily that, yes indeed, I did give birth to 4 children.  

My mammoth mountain of laundry reminds me that this is no joke.

And when, in just a fraction of a second and out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of myself (both naughty and nice) in my children, it suddenly comes crashing down on me that I am a real, genuine, bona fide parent.

{Gulp!}

Sometimes, when I see a piece of me in them it's exhilarating.  

And sometimes, well, it makes me cringe.  

Sure, I love to take some of the credit for their friendliness, their outgoing natures, their drive and determination.  

But, unfortunately, I also need to take some responsibility for their quick tempers, their impatience with each other, and their loud voices that sometimes bite.

Yeah, that's me too.

{Rats!}

Each morning, I put on my game face, act like I know what I'm doing, and continue playing house.  

And I pray daily that someday I'll get it right.