I. Am. Mom.

Mom! Moooooooommmm!! Mommy! Mama! Mooooomiiiiiieeeee!
Yeah, I'll answer to that.  Even if you aren't my child, I might look your way.
Nine years and two months ago I officially became mom. 
Hey, kids! God knew you first, but I was a close second.  I knew about all of you before you had existed even a month.  I tolerate pregnancy, labor, and delivery (all uncomfortable, the last two you may pay me back for later) because I knew it meant I could hold you in my arms someday.
I was the first to love you, comfort you, nourish you, clean you, teach you, and protect you.
  But , I'm not perfect.  I raise my voice.  I fail.  I don't always meet your needs like I would like to now that you are bigger.
None of that disqualifies me.  I know you better than anyone else.  I know when you went to bed without brushing your teeth, when you snuck the food, brought the toy in the car, spoke under your breath, and disobeyed my wishes when I wasn't around.  I know how much food to put on your plate, what color of shirt to get you, what book you might like, and when you need alone time.  Most of your inside jokes are with me.  I am an expert in your odd quirks.
Kids, mommy is working hard.  She is trying to be your mom more like God is her father.  I need more patience, kindness, and self control.  I need to tell you "good job" more.  I need to tell you how awesome I think you handled the last year of crisis.  You need more gentle reminders in place of my frustrated critiques.
You are all smart, beautiful, creative, funny, strong, loving, and unique.  Hang in there.  Stick with me.  We have come a long way and have a long way to go.  I need to hold your hand on the way.