Sometimes being a good mom means doing things ‘wrong’ and being damned proud of it. Take this little nursery rhyme, for instance. Those aren’t the words. Not as far as Isla and I are concerned. First of all, we don’t say ‘pat-a-cake’ we say ‘patty cake’ and, second of all, that isn’t how we go about getting our cakes made either. We do a whole lotta sifting, stirring and rolling (which requires shaking back and forth, tracing circles on Isla’s belly and massaging a set of ‘roller pins’  up and down the her arms and legs with the palms of my hands). Only then do we put it in the oven (which means nose-diving my fingers into the ticklishness of her armpits). Sure, I’ve…