Sometimes, when we are just sitting around, my mom will burst into tears and tell me what a good father my kids have. I nod. “I know, Mom. I know.” And, I do.

I think part of the reason she cries is because she had a good relationship with her father and she misses him. He’s been gone since I was a child, but she still talks about him a lot. I think there is also something to be said for the fact that my mom is 78 years old and has known a lot of people who didn’t have close relationships with their dads. My grandparent’s generation wasn’t exactly known for wearing their emotions on their sleeves.

Actually, some members of my generation aren’t known for it either. There is no denying that my husband is a curmudgeon (seriously, he won’t even deny it), but he loves his kids, does all kinds of activities with them that I probably never would, instills in them a sense of responsibility, shares his faith and his dreams with them, and even though he is one of the biggest sports fans I’ve ever known, he doesn’t blink an eye at the fact that our special needs son will never be a star athlete.

Of course, my husband gets all of his parenting skills naturally because he has a great dad. As do I. Our fathers are both funny, kind, generous and loving.

Way back in 1997 I spent an amazing August afternoon dancing with all of these men. I happened to be wearing a wedding dress and at one point or another was twirled around the dance floor by my brand-new husband, my dad, and my father-in-law.

The other night my daughter’s dance club threw an event for the parents. It was held in the same hall where my husband and I had our wedding reception, and when my groom and our daughter took to the dance floor – the same dance floor where I had danced with my dad – I was the one doing the crying.

I have been so lucky to have these dads in my life and I wish the same thing for my girl.

So far, so good.

Speaking of dads, I’ll be on a panel at the Dad 2.0 Summit in Houston this weekend where some of the best parents in social media will be gathering to declare, “Parenting isn’t just for moms, and neither is blogging!” I just made that quote up, but I’m pretty sure they’ll want to to put it on a bumper sticker.

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Sometimes, after I have yelled and hit my head against the wall in frustration, I look at your face and count your freckles.

When I am too tired to keep my eyes open at night, I stumble past the cluttered coffee table and nearly burst into tears at the sight of the kitchen sink. I see that you’ve used four different cups in the last four hours, then I sneak into your room and give you kisses while you sleep.

I sigh at your attitude and 10 minutes later I grab you for a hug. My shoulders slump when I see your mountain of laundry on the basement floor, but as I fold your shirts I smile at how much you’ve grown.

I want to stomp my feet because it’s impossible to get you to bed on time, and in the morning I am happy to hear your footsteps when you climb out of bed and I know we’re about to start another day together.

This job – this blessing – it is work and happiness and exhaustion and sunshine. It is tears, sleepless nights, worry-filled days, and joy beyond compare. It’s being thrilled for how far you’ve come and being frozen in fear when I think about the future.

I am proud, I am scared, I am confident, I am confused.

I am a parent.

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My 14 year old daughter is finishing up her 8th grade basketball season and last week, among the many emails from her future high school, current teachers, and summer camps, there was a message from her basketball coach that stood out from the rest.

It said that the girls needed to work on their rebounding, it gave the practice schedule for the week, and then there…at the bottom…I read a little, golden nugget; plans for a mothers vs. daughters basketball game.

Aw, yeah!

At the final practice of the season, a pack of 40-something, prone-to-get-distracted-by-wine, possibly-running-the-court-while-wearing-walking-boots, women will be taking on a sprightly bunch of teens. I can’t wait.

For one, it gives me ample excuse to embarrass my daughter. We’re planning to wear tube socks. And, maybe silk shorts.

It will also give me a chance to show off my impressive wing-span. They don’t call me “Orangutan Arms” for nothing!

And, lastly, even though it is highly likely that we will get our butts kicked, there is an ever so slight chance that we will have eternal bragging rights.

Not to mention that I finally get a chance to wear my headband again.

Bring it, girls.

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Dear Target,

Let me state from the outset that I love you. I love you so much that I visit at least twice a week and even if I only went in for paper towels, I give the cashier $75. Every time.

But, can we please talk about these ads for your Everyday Collection?

I’m all for edgy, but I find them downright bizarre. If you want to accurately portray a PTA mom, you should show her frazzled and running to the store at the last minute to buy pre-packaged cookies, IF she remembered the cookies at all. And trust me, she wouldn’t be wearing those heels.

And, how about this one?

Are women only about baking and changing diapers? Really? I don’t know about you, but it’s 2013 at my house. Show me a woman with a drill, free weights, or a car battery. Okay, I’m lying about the car battery, because I have NO CLUE how to change one of those. BUT I COULD FIGURE IT OUT IF I HAD TO.

Better yet, show me a man changing the diapers or baking a cake. That’s what I want to see. If you want to see a woman get excited about something, it’s having a man in your “Everyday” who flexes his muscles in the kitchen or while emptying the Diaper Genie. RAWR.

You’re better than this, Target. Continue to show that a woman can be strong and confident in her everyday life, but let’s give her a little credit so my 14 year old daughter knows that her future isn’t just about cake mix and baby bottoms.

And, if you’re going to have women portray moms while wearing all white I think it’s clear that the best thing to advertise would be a giant bottle of bleach.

Disclosure: I should have mentioned that Target is a customer of my employer BlogHer, Inc., but this opinion is my own; both the love of the brand and the critique of this particular ad.

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