Being a mom is like being a cage fighter.

The lights dim. The crowd turns their attention to the entrance as a spotlight falls upon a single silhouette entering the arena. The Itsy Bitsy Spider blares from the speakers as I-mean-it-you-have-until-the-count-of-three Mom enters the ring.  Once again the lights dim as multi-colored beams of light flash across the arena. Fight For Your Right to Party (Beastie Boys) begins to blast through the arena, as Toddler the Terrible enters. The crowd goes wild...


Being a mom is like being a cage fighter. No rules. Anything goes. Fight to the finish. There's blood, sweat, and tears...for the mom. And that's just from trying to get a toddler to get ready in the morning.

At night, I sometimes feel like those fighters that they interview after the fight who are barely coherent from one too many blows to the old noggin.  "Ya know, there at the end, I was just trying to make it to the bell..." Forget winning. I watched this one ultimate fighting match once where one of the fighters was pretty old for the sport. He didn't win, but people respected him for trying. His victory was that he made it to the end and that his young, whipper-snapper opponent didn't deliver a KO (knock-out). That's how I feel some days. Maybe I didn't teach my children Japanese today or proper etiquette at the dinner table; maybe the house isn't spotless; maybe dinner wasn't a gourmet meal (let's just say we had a panini with fruit and a nut cream tonight); but, we are still alive and well. Victory.