My mother was/is great. She raised four girls on a tight budget while struggling with severe depression. I recall how she fiercely protected us like a mother hen and the rooster, too. We always had clean clothes and nourishing food, and we participated in the usual school activities. There were vacations and family celebrations. But to hear one of my sisters’ versions of childhood, you’d think we were raised by Joan Crawford. She whines about the lack, the neglect and the embarrassment of being raised by Japanese parents in a white neighborhood. How could she not remember that my mother arose early to drive her to swim practice at 5 am, wait for her so she could zip her to school and then reverse that routine to get her to after school team practice? There were countless sessions with a stroke specialist and two-day swim meets all over the state. She got the fashionable clothes whereas the rest of us wore hand-me-downs; and my mother was her class’s room mother for years. She got the best of my mother’s attention and still it was not good enough.

When I became a mother of three, I wanted to do everything I could to be a good—no, great—mother. Growing up, I watched old reruns of “Leave It to Beaver” and “Father Knows Best” and so I thought that good mothers always wore an apron and baked cookies in a kitchen with frilly curtains. Good mothers were loving and supportive and spoke in a lilting voice, never raising it. So I wore aprons and baked cookies and spoke in a sing-songy voice. I read stories, crafted with homemade dough, helped with homework, cooked nutritious food, planned birthday parties, ushered them to church, pushed the swings and played tag.

Then reality flickered across the screen of my illusions. I did raise my voice at my children. I did feel frustration, anger and burn-out. And it made me feel like a wretched, horrible mother. Every time I needed to scold or lecture my kids, I would go into my bedroom, close the door and cry. I lied awake at night, worrying if I was carving an indelible emotional scar on their precious hearts by not doing all I could do to be a good mother. Did I hover and rob them of the chance to feel independent? Was I not providing the right opportunities to develop if they weren’t in Little League or music lessons? Was I messing them up emotionally because I let them win all the board games?

There is something miraculous about children. They grow up naturally without a lot of help from us. If you read about some of the most influential people in history, most of them had substandard parenting and that was what drove them to excel. (Ok, so if my kids are mediocre, does that mean I’ve done a great job of parenting? Never mind.)

Most mothers want to do a good job of raising their children. What I’ve learned observing many a parent-child relationship is that each child has his own life path and he will forge it with or without our input. Every mother has witnessed, with some awe, how one of her children has a distinct personality that seems to have come from somewhere beyond the family tree. And she watches with great amusement, curiosity or horror, how this personality will live out its destiny—without her influence or aid. That is how good parents can end up with “bad” children. Or vice versa.

So what is a mother to do? Her best. And then, let go of the results. Be content with being a “good enough” mother. Good enough does not mean mediocrity. It only means you’ve done your best. I’ve found that when you strive for good enough, your children end up rising up to bless you. Being good enough means you no longer stress and strain and make life intolerably pressure-filled as you demand perfection.

Who cares about perfection? Certainly not your children. All children truly want is a happy, loving mother. A happy mother teaches by example the most important lesson in life: how to live happily. Keep the lesson simple. Smile, hum a little, laugh a lot, love unconditionally, and that truly is good enough.