Most of the time, I kind of feel like I'm faking my way through motherhood. Like someday the parenting police are going to crash through my door and say "you have NO IDEA what you're doing... your son cannot eat another peanut butter sandwich for dinner."
Every once in a while though, I catch a glimpse of my success. My seven-year-old stretched out on a sunny spot on the couch, reading her book on a Saturday afternoon. That's success.