You are here (on Mother's Day).

I'm a mom. I love being a mom. I'm certainly not the best mom, but I don't absolutely suck either. So I've got that going for me.

Daughter has been asking me to listen to the original cast recording of Dear Evan Hansen, a fabulous musical with nine Tony nominations this year, since she first heard it way back at the beginning of the year. And it isn't that I haven't wanted to oblige, but that I didn't have the time to truly devote to listening to it. That is, until this week.

Let's just say that I didn't even make it through the very first song without breaking down in tears.

It's been that kind of a month—the cry my eyes out kind of month where good and bad things have me sobbing—sometimes in public places.

At least I was smart enough to listen at home while unloading the dishwasher one evening so no one saw me sobbing except the dog and the plates.

Since listening to the recording (numerous times), I've come to love the musical and the very contemporary feel it has. It's basically like a young adult novel in song! And y'all know how I adore some young adult novels.

But since my breakdown with the dishes, I've also been thinking a lot about this crazy gig called Motherhood.

The first song in Dear Evan Hansen is sung by two mothers—two struggling, confused, befuddled, hopeful mothers who want to connect with their sons but are finding it hard. They both plead, "Does anybody have a map?/Anybody maybe happen to know how the hell to do this?"



They both admit they're unsure if what they're doing as Moms is good enough—is it even working?—are they failing their sons and themselves. "Cause the scary truth is/I'm flyin' blind/And I'm makin' this up as I go."

Well, I don't know about you all, but those lines made everything go blurry. Because I don't know what I'm doing. And sometimes I think my improvisations are pretty damn good. And other times...well, nobody is perfect. Except it can be panic inducing to think that my imperfections can deeply affect my kiddos. And then, well, sometimes you just have to sit on the kitchen floor and cry with your dishes.

I've realized though (after taking time to properly dry and put away the cups and plates) that it's okay that we're all pretending to know what the hell we're doing. It's okay to get lost. It's okay to screw up. Just as long as we admit to those screw ups and remain committed to the one thing that I think does matter when it comes to parents and their kids.

Unconditional love.

Which doesn't mean you can sass me or sneak out or be stupid on social media without getting your ass grounded. But it does mean that even if you do something stupid, at least we can all breathe easier knowing we're related, because have I told you how many stupid things I've done in my life? No? Well, pour Mommy a glass of wine and let me elucidate.

The other thing I've come to realize—if there is a Tony nominated Broadway musical that illustrates how very lost Moms sometimes feel, I must not be the only one out there stumbling around blind.