My Mother's Day manifesto

I am not a perfect mom. I am okay with that. In fact, I have stopped trying to be perfect. Instead, this Mother's Day, I am accepting me for who I am, for the mother that I am.

I will never be "together." There will always be loose ends, some missed step, something that was overlooked or that is falling apart. I'll forget the permission slip, the doctor's appointment, where I put the sunscreen, and even my parents' wedding anniversary. (Sorry, Mom and Dad.)

I'm almost always 5, 10 or 15 minutes late. (Four kids will do that.) Eventually, I get where I need to be. The world doesn't end.

My laundry is never done, my house is almost always dirty, there are always dishes in the sink, there is always an unfinished project on my to-do list. My Christmas tree is still up in May (we actually like the mood lighting it brings,). My son's room still has the paint samples on the wall six months after I put them up there. My toddler's baby book is still empty, two and a half years later.

There are times when I don't like being a mom, when I get tired of refereeing the squabbling and bickering or when I want to scream if I have to remind one more person one more time to do their chores.

There are times when I want to run away from home, when I am so spent or overwhelmed or irritated that I need space. NOW. I honor this, without judgment.

My belly will always have a little pooch, my weight regularly goes up and down by a size, and there are times when I will eat for reasons other than hunger. While I'd always like to look smashing, or even just cute, sometimes, my workout clothes and a shower every few days is the best that I can do. And that is okay.

I won't always know what to say, or what to do. Sometimes I'll say the wrong thing. Sometimes I'll lose my temper and say things that I later regret. I will fumble through parenting in the same way that I've had to fumble through the other learning curves in my life.

I accept that I will hurt my children. Despite my good intentions, I will mess up. My children may not appreciate my choices, the values that drive my parenting. This is a hard one for me to swallow. But risking love means risking being hurt, something that goes both ways. It's part of the gig of humanity, of relationships, and that includes the parent-child relationship. I accept that my children will hurt me, too. And I accept that we will, together, find a way to mend our hurts and move on.

Most of all, I accept that even with all my flaws, my peccadilloes, my imperfections and my blind spots, that I'm a good mother. In fact, I'm a great one. I have great kids. They are finding their way. They are learning their lessons as I learn mine. They teach me as I teach them. I am honored to watch them on their journey.

For just as easily as I can list all the things that I do badly, I can list many things that I do really, really well. Dancing around the kitchen with my kids to my ipod, laughing and smiling and happy, they make fun of my love for 80s hip-hop. Everything feels okay in the world.

I think of the times when I took quarters to the grocery store and a video rental was a splurge. Yet I still managed to create magic on Christmas morning - the barn set from the thrift store, the homemade pajamas, the notes from Santa and the reindeer dust on the floor.

I think of when my children are lonesome or disappointed or when they miss their dog who died from cancer and I hold them and rock them and tell them, "It's okay, cry and let it out," and I can feel the healing energy between us and I know that I am giving them something important and I feel very, very good.

My kids are the evidence of my proud parenting moments: four imperfect but wonderful, confident, kind kids. Even when I'm at my worst, when self-doubt picks at my confidence, I can see that I've had a lot to do with this. My mothering has been a huge part of who they are. No, it's not the whole part, but it's a part. I take great pride in that.

This is also true for you. You're a great mom. You have great kids. Their light and strength and kindness and confidence? Who gave them these things? Why, you.

Who knew, when we became mothers, that we signed up for an "18 year meditation retreat," as Jon Kabat-Zinn so eloquently put it?

And who knew how we would rise to the occasion, again, and again, and again, even when we were tired, scared, overwhelmed? Even when we wanted nothing more than to run away from home...

The common thread through my parenting experience, both in my stellar moments and in my failures, is me. I didn't become a different or better or more evolved person when I gave birth. Instead, I just brought me, a flawed human being who is doing what every human being is doing on this planet: the best she can. Sometimes I shine. Sometimes I flop. But through it all, I keep moving forward, recommitting myself each day to my practice, to my yoga: motherhood.

Breathe. Move. Flow. Trust. Surrender.

This imperfect dance is my definition of a perfect mother, one whose music calls to me, each day anew, calling me to embrace the soul of motherhood.

To my fellow mothers, on Mother's Day and on everyday: I meet you here.

Karly Randolph Pitman is a writer, speaker and mother of four who founded firstourselves.com to help women create spiritually, emotionally, and physically nourishing lives. She is the author of Overcoming Sugar Addiction, Heal Your Body Image, and the forthcoming The Soul of Motherhood. Sign up for her free newsletters on self-care, loving your body, and staying sugar free. Join First Ourselves on Facebook.

[photo credit: Getty Images]