Everyone has their favorite television moms.

And who we consider maternal perfection on television says a lot about who we are as people.

I mean, there are people who love June Cleaver and people who love, say, Roseanne Conner.

Here’s why I’m a Conner fan for life:

The other day, my windows were open. Here in Pennsylvania, the weather changes in a flash and it’s not until about July that you can assume you won’t need to shut them to the cold again for any extended period of time. As a result, I tend to forget, during the spring and fall, that my windows are open sometimes.

And I “correct” my children with my “windows closed” voice when the windows are actually open.

And I have to assume that my neighbors think I’m an abusive psychopath.

It’s the same thing that happens when I forget it’s summer and I’m going full The Voice on the Moana soundtrack while I drive the girls to school.

The people on their way to work at Northwest in the morning? My biggest fans. Every single one of them.

According to the rules I’ve set in my own mind.

I used to get embarrassed when I yelled at my kids with the windows open. I mean, it’s not as though I’m always yelling, and I’m not full-on rage screaming or anything. But I can get loud. And it made me feel really bad. Until I caught a two day Roseanne marathon on TV Land. And I realized that Roseanne wouldn’t give one furry rat’s behind whether her neighbors heard her yelling at The Deej or not. In fact, if Roseanne Conner thought the neighbors were listening, she’d get extra loud just to be sure they caught the whole show.

Because Roseanne Conner ain’t parenting for the neighbors, y’all.

Roseanne is the epitome of authenticity. Roseanne in front of the neighbors is Roseanne in front of her family. Roseanne at work is Roseanne at home. She’s unvarnished and honest, funny and unabashed. It’s why people who don’t like her loathe her so hard.

But it’s why I love her. In a world of social actors, we’re lucky to come across someone who couldn’t possibly care less what the critics have to say, or at least has the nerve not to change in order to soften their opinions.

My own mom is probably somewhere at the intersection of June Cleaver and Carol Brady, temperamentally. Most of the time. Until I dye my hair red or put the drinking glasses in the wrong cupboard.

But that’s another story.

She’s never quite at ease around my more Conner-esque loudness.

But as I settle into motherhood I feel more and more comfortable channeling my inner Roseanne. My kids are able to toss around sarcasm and a sense of humor that’s technically not supposed to be developmentally possible until early adolescence.

They’re already skilled at attacking my weak spot – humor – when they want something rather than defaulting to whining, begging, and wheedling.

They know I can’t remain a seething cauldron of maternal rage when I’m laughing at their sass, and their ability to hit the mark with it is improving, dangerously.

Where I was embarrassed the first time I realized I’d lost my cool with the windows open, I’m now amused at the notion of changing my parenting style to suit the neighbors. My kids see me yell. They see me cry. They see me tired and they see me at my worst. I hide nothing from them. I don’t feign patience when I have none left.

And, as a result, they see me apologize when I’ve reacted poorly to frustration. They know that no matter how angry I am in the moment, it’s love that every interaction I have with them is grounded in. They know that emotions aren’t forever, that mistakes can be mended, and most importantly, they know that I’m imperfect above all else.

Next to Carol Brady and June Cleaver, by most standards, Roseanne Conner doesn’t quite measure up. Cleaver and Brady are ideals. They are their generations’ Pinterest moms. They’re beautiful, patient, and abundant of time, mental stamina, and resources. They never need a moment for themselves, and it would appear that they do not eat, burp, fart, breathe, or poop. They live to please, and their families are their whole lives.

But what would those families do without them? What would they be? Such an infallible matriarch is a dangerous idol. Like the over-achieving Pinterest mom of today, they can’t possibly continue to please when they set the bar so high for themselves, yet the constant struggle to do just that consumes them. They’re not just fictional characters. They are mythical creatures.

Roseanne Conner, on the other hand, is the creatively nonfictional alter-ego of the woman who wrote her. She’s an avatar of a real person, who lives a realistic life in a realisitic home filled with realistic problems that are realistically complex and hard to solve. She enjoys things that real people enjoy, and she needs the same things that real people need. And her struggle to meet her needs, and achieve her wants, is funny because it’s authentic. The situations may be fictionalized but most people can recognize their own struggles in Roseanne’s, and in that way she’s relevant to a much wider audience that Cleaver or Brady.

And it’s why she’ll trounce Cleaver and Brady for me. Every single time.

For me.

I love my Cleaver Brady mom. I just don’t understand her, often, and can’t possibly live up, and so I don’t even try.