We must be doing something right.

Some days, at the end of a really hard week, it takes all I can muster to make it to bedtime on Friday night.  We've survived school-morning rushes, meltdowns over the clothes we refused to wear or the snacks we weren't allowed to eat.  I made dinners, washed dishes, packed lunches, lugged numerous bags and chairs to and from soccer practice, and read Ninjago and Olivia until I was blue in the face.  I wrote lesson plans, emailed parents, and paid bills.  It's a lot.

This parenting business is tricky work.

And at least several times I day I wonder if I'm doing it wrong.  Is there a better way?  How can I avoid this behavior tomorrow?  Surely, that is my fault...  Parents are inundated with these thoughts.  (I mean, we are.  Right?  It's not just me?)

So - at the tail-end of a very long and painful week, when all I want to do is scoop the kids up from school and rush home, but instead something happens that makes me smile, I think, "We must be doing something right."

Today, when I came into Hannah's classroom, she came running at me full-speed to share that she'd had two little accidents.  One is occasional; two is practically unheard of, so as I was pondering this situation, she continued.

"My bagina isn't feeling very well."

So while the two teachers looked over, and the little kids painted and read books and built things, I smiled.  Because my little three year old knows the precise name of her body parts (although, not quite the pronunciation).  And not only that - but she also knows when to use well in place of good.

So when a doctor's visit loomed and it's Friday night and soccer starts at 10 the next morning, I smiled.

"We must be doing something right," I thought.

Even if it's grammar.