"If I Were a Good Mom.? On sleepless nights it's an endless refrain that echoes through my head to the tune of"If I Were a Rich Man." Far be it from me to annihilate a good Fiddler on the Roof tune, but that's what runs through my mind s I review my days.

I realized recently that I've yet to even make it to the finals for that "Mother of the Year Award" my own mother ever-so-sarcastically referred to during my youth. I wonder if it's because of days like today. This afternoon, while I was working on the computer, my daughter asked if she could go play outside in her playhouse. The sky had been threatening rain all day, but the playhouse is solid with a roof and heater, so I thought nothing of letting her head out to play. Imagine my surprise when I realized I heard not only a downpour but also the laughter of a drenched preschooler as she danced on the patio and made sidewalk-chalk soup in a puddle. She was happy, but I doubt I'll even garner a nomination for that one. A Good Mom would've made sure she was attired with an umbrella and boots and made sure that the hood of her raincoat covered neatly trimmed bangs.

The more I think about it, the more I realize my award will never come. Instead of getting up at five o'clock each morning to prepare a healthy feast for her to break her nightly fast, I stumble to the kitchen and pour her a bowl of trail mix and a cup of juice. The pediatrician didn't mind when I mentioned the morning fare; after all, the juice is organic, and "peanuts and raisins are healthier than some sugar-laden cereal." Even the dentist approved since the juice is diluted halfway with water. I can't help but think a Good Mom would be poaching eggs from the family's free-range hens and frying up the bacon from a prized 4-H project pig while squeezing her own orange juice.

It goes back further than solid foods though. The poor child is culturally deprived and that's my fault too. I wasn't raised on nursery rhymes and lullabies, so I had nothing to sing her to sleep with as an infant. All I could think of were my personal favorites: the "Star Spangled Banner" and the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Just yesterday she was building a garden made of LEGO, humming while she worked. The melody sounded familiar and as I began to listen more closely she burst into song: "And the rockets' red glare/the bombs bursting in air/gave proof through the night/that our flag was still there!" Just not normal for a three-year-old. Shouldn't she be singing Barney tunes?

If you ask my neighbors, it's amazing enough that she can even speak at all. When she was about five months old we started working on American Sign Language (ASL). She ignored it until she was a year old, then wanted to know the signs for everything she encountered. For a full year she would only speak names of words she didn't know the signs for and a relative informed me I was "making the child stupid." At two years old she suddenly started speaking in full sentences but to this day continues to sign. We're now at a vocabulary of almost two hundred signs and counting. In my book that makes her bilingual, but a neighbor recently commented, "Wow, she can talk now!" I got a blank look when I mentioned that she'd communicated with me just fine for years. I keep forgetting that a Good Mom would have forced her daughter to speak her native language rather than teaching and learning a new language with her.

The more I think on it, I'll just pass on that "Mother of the Year Award." At the rate things are going I'll never even garnish an honorable mention anyway. I'll just have to follow in my own mother's footsteps and sacrifice the award for days of skipping school to head to the zoo, spending the afternoon snuggled in bed with a book, and-dare I say its' dancing in the rain while the sidewalk chalk melts into soup.

 - Melonie K. Murray is a homeschooling mom and a freelance writer. She can be found blogging at www.SmallBizMentor.com, www.TheHomeCast.com and www.HomeschoolBlogger.com/MelM. She is an avid reader, surburban homesteader, and compulsive organizer.  When she's stressed, she sorts, so don't let her near your sock drawer. Email Melonie at Melonie@SmallBizMentor.com.