The Woman I've Become

I am a failure, and chocolate won't help.
When my children were about, I don't know... born... I set goals for their lives.
I did.
Sometimes I get a little freakish in this department. I think I come by it honestly, but I can't say specifically where I aquired my overbearing need for Ultimate Control. Because my Mother, whom I love, reads this blog. (Hi Momma. Of course I wasn't refering to you. You are shy and retiring.)

I mapped out the boy's general acedemic career from age 5 until age 13, and then new goals between 13 and 18.
I touched on their spiritual growth, athletic prowess, and community service.
They are the modest, well-thought-out goals that you would expect from me.

M' is due to turn 13 NEXT MONTH.
He is not a black belt, he does not speak Latin fluently, he cannot compute any Algebraic equations, and the boy doesn't ever pick up after himself. He is not headed for an early high school graduation, nor does he care.
How is he ever going to be a prominent historical figure within the United States Government?
He's supposed to be studying biblical Greek while discipling a group of young men and learning Rhetoric and Oration. And coaxing old ladies cats out of trees.
Do you know what he likes? Girls, violent team sports, and YouTube. Plus, he is recruiting groupies for the garage band he hopes to begin.
He is so cute, you wouldn't believe it.

I still have a chance with D." By that, I mean that there is still time to re-write my goals. Although, West Point is where he is aimed, and he may yet make it.

Don't get me wrong.
I love these two; I even like them.

It's just that I am not half the mom I wanted to be.

They are twice the young men I ever imagined they could be.