I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know I wanted to be a “Mommy.” While my sister asked for cowboy hats and toy guns I only wanted to wear my mother’s high heels and play with dolls.

I would not only be a mommy but I would be a perfect mommy. I would do all the right things thereby producing flawless children. I noted every error my own mother made over the years and vowed how I would approach that particular issue differently when it was my turn.

I would always believe my children because they wouldn’t lie thanks to my exceptional maternal gifts.  I would trust them and give them reasonable freedom when they were teenagers because, having raised them so perfectly, they would not want to disappoint me and would make the best choices or ask me or their father (whoever he turned out to be) for guidance.

I would love my kids with such intensity that they would never feel insecure, lonely, or sad. I was sure books would be written about my parenting abilities and my amazing children. Oprah would have me on her show and I’d fill the entire hour answering “How to Be a Great Mom” questions from less capable audience members.

OK, I did my best.