In honor of Mother’s Day, the fabulous Kara tapped some of her favorite moms and dads and sons and daughters to write about–well, Mother’s Day. Or mothers. Or whatever struck their fancy. You can see the complete list of participants here and can find the links to recent posts here.

A while back, I pointed you all toward a new site, ParentsLike.Us; one of the contributors was Kim Washburn, a friend of my brother’s and mom to a five-year-old daughter and twin three-year-old sons (imagine–TWO Charlies). Sadly, that site is no more (although you should go to the archives and read this post, which made my mother and me laugh until we cried) and now I’m working on Kim to get her own blog (hint, hint). She is funny and kind and my parents would adopt her and her children in a heartbeat. She is one of my favorite moms, and I am delighted to share her Mother’s Day post with you all.

Unlike her parents, my 5-year-old actually gets up when the alarm goes off. She dons a creative outfit (usually involving red velvet), tramps into the master bedroom to rouse the sack hounds (”Is that the real time?!””), and thus commences the mad dash to get everyone out the door with all body parts appropriately covered and jelly-free. In our house, it’s generally not a pretty process, but we pull it off most of the time.

And then there are the days, like yesterday, when I am simultaneously brushing my daughter’s hair, encouraging–OK, nagging–her to eat faster, silently cursing that we don’t have time to do her kindergarten homework because I forgot to check her backpack the night before, and nervously smiling at my visiting mother-in-law who is frankly appalled at the morning ritual. After literally pushing my daughter out the door and blowing a kiss, I take my son to his preschool classroom and gasp at his friend’s bunny slippers. (More silent cursing.) It’s Pajama Day and my son is sporting Levis. And he is NOT happy. I toy with explaining that it’’s better to be in regular clothes on Pajama Day than pajamas on a regular day, but quickly determine he’s in no mood for the bright side.

By the time I get back to my minivan at 9:07 a.m., I’m utterly defeated and just want to crawl back under the covers. What happened to the ease, patience and grace of Claire Huxtable that I was sure would come with a little practice? For six years I’ve assumed that motherhood was something I would eventually master, like a good chip shot or a chocolate souffle.

But from the very beginning my children refused–—refused!–to be as predictable as a recipe. After my daughter was born, nursing went so well (apart from the unfortunate sensation that my nipples were being stapled) that I nearly got cocky. Then the birth of my twins put me in my humble place. Feeding them simultaneously like a big bovine quickly lost its charm, and I was knocked off my pedestal by a big bottle of formula.

And when my daughter flirted with colic, we were so proud of ourselves when we could magically soothe her by placing her tiny, beanied head next to a roaring vacuum cleaner. Sadly when we tried to calm our twins with the same routine, we sent them to the ceiling in sheer terror.

How can I master motherhood if my kids keep changing the rules?

My kindergartner has concluded that she can do everything herself, thank you very much. My middle child has decided that Sesame Street is so last year. And my youngest son, who used to regard art as a race, now spends hours on one notebook page–—and God forbid it leave its rightful place on the refrigerator. (How was I to know that scrap of paper was his masterpiece?)

So as my children grow in independence, learn to express wildly uninformed opinions and determine to teach me a thing or two, I’m left apologizing for my mistakes and wondering what to do next. I’m not mastering motherhood. I’m mastering humility.

Thankfully I came across the wise words of Jill Churchill: “The most important thing [she’d] learned over the years was that there was no way to be a perfect mother and a million ways to be a good one.”

Excellent. Something I can tattoo on my forehead. Maybe for Mother’s Day . . .