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"  First, one kid climbed into her lap. Then the other climbed in, too, even though there wasn&amp;#039;t much room left. The woman sitting in the pew in front of me at church on Sunday - Mother&amp;#039;s Day - was clearly trying hard to give attention to both of her boys while keeping them from killing each other during mass. Meanwhile, her husband sat peacefully next to them, because nobody wanted to sit with Daddy. When the priest announced that it was time for kids ages four through second grade to come forward for the children&amp;#039;s liturgy, the two boys toddled off their mother&amp;#039;s lap toward the pulpit. I noticed that she let out a long sigh. I know that feeling well, having endured many Sunday church services trying to keep Wrestlemania from breaking out in my lap. Even though I was the parent who had spent the entire week with my boys, they couldn&amp;#039;t get enough of me. And frankly, I&amp;#039;m not that great. But when your kids are little, every day is Mother&amp;#039;s Day. And by that, I mean that you&amp;#039;re the center of attention, not that you&amp;#039;re likely to get a few minutes to yourself. And you&amp;#039;re supposed to love every moment of it and not complain that maybe you&amp;#039;d like to sit all by yourself just once while Daddy referees. One Sunday, I got so overwhelmed with the Momma Mania that I got up in the middle of mass and left. I sat on the wall outside of the church&amp;#039;s adjoining school and didn&amp;#039;t feel the least bit guilty about it - until the monsignor passed by and asked, &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s a lovely day, isn&amp;#039;t it?&amp;quot; Which, of course, I took to mean, &amp;quot;...isn&amp;#039;t it time you went back into the church?&amp;quot; This Sunday, when the children&amp;#039;s liturgy was over, the two boys returned with flowers and some artwork in crayon for their mother. She smiled and whispered &amp;quot;thank you&amp;quot; to both of them, and then went back to supervising the Battle for Mommy&amp;#039;s Lap. Meanwhile, I found out why my family had been so disappointed when I&amp;#039;d suggested that perhaps I&amp;#039;d like to go to the day&amp;#039;s only Spinning class at my gym in lieu of church as my Mother&amp;#039;s Day present: My son the choir boy would sing a lovely song about moms and how they love you and how they&amp;#039;re &amp;quot;always there for you.&amp;quot; And then it was my turn to let out a big sigh. There&amp;#039;s been a lot of talk lately about &amp;quot;bad moms,&amp;quot; who prefer their husbands to their kids, or let their nine-year-olds get home all by themselves. But those are just the ones who made the news. The rest of us struggle each day with crossing that line to when somebody, somewhere just might think that we&amp;#039;re doing a bad job as mothers, simply because we don&amp;#039;t feel like mothering every single minute of every single day - even Mother&amp;#039;s Day. And yet, nobody ever seems to question when Daddy&amp;#039;s just sitting there in peace. Yesterday morning, I finally made it to Spinning class. Midway through one fast-paced song, the teacher yelled, &amp;quot;C&amp;#039;mon! Keep sprinting!&amp;quot; The cap flew off my water bottle and onto the floor and my shoelace came untied, but I kept on peddling like mad. Ah, but I know that feeling well. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/parenting/a22332/every-moment-of-momma-mania/>