Motherhood is often perceived as a seamless journey, where moments of perfection seem to flow effortlessly. There are days when I feel like I have it all together, gliding through the routines and basking in the joy of parenting. However, these blissful moments can quickly fade, revealing the reality of challenging times—the instances when I lost patience, felt the need to apologize, or went to bed weighed down by guilt. During those smoother phases, I sometimes struggle to understand the struggles that other mothers refer to as “failing.” What could possibly be so dire? Is it simply a matter of serving hot dogs for dinner or letting cartoons babysit?
Then comes a day like today, which serves as a stark reminder of what true failure looks like.
This morning, my preschooler awoke cranky and demanding, communicating in that all-too-familiar whiny tone. As usual, I crawled into bed beside him, showering him with morning cuddles and kisses. The beauty of being a stay-at-home mom is in those small, tender moments. He suggested a playful gunfight, and of course, I was on board. But I fumbled the execution; I didn’t crouch low enough or make the right sound effects. Despite my efforts, he continued to complain, and I felt my patience wearing thin. Bracing myself for what loomed ahead, I finally declared that I was done playing and went downstairs for my coffee.
Throughout the day, I tried to maintain a balance between validating his feelings and detaching from them—an essential part of preserving my sanity. I offered the hugs he craved but did my best to avoid being affected by his emotional turmoil. I inquired about the cause of his distress, acknowledging that we all have off days. Yet, as the hours dragged on, I felt myself unraveling.
By 3 p.m., his whining was relentless. Despite my earlier requests for him to speak nicely, I found myself snapping, “All you do is whine! I can’t take it anymore!” My attempts to remain calm and nurturing began to slip away. Amidst his complaints, he called me “rude,” and I couldn’t help but feel frustrated. He wanted to go to the store for a My Little Pony coloring book and insisted, “Right now!”
While loading the dishwasher, I succumbed to my inner chaos. In a moment of frustration, I slammed the door so hard that a glass shattered inside. The sound echoed as I stepped outside, declaring, “I need a break!” His immediate reaction was to cry out for me, arms outstretched, pleading, “Noooo!” I returned to the kitchen, realizing I needed to address the mess I’d created, but my composure was far from regained. I snapped at him to stay away from the kitchen, and when he innocently inquired, “What broken glass?” I felt my anger surge again. “This! This broken glass!” I snapped, shaking the bag of shards.
He retreated to the living room, asking for a hug—a simple gesture of reassurance that I still loved him. But in that moment, I said, “Not right now,” and my tone was far from gentle. I could have paused my cleaning to comfort him, to regain my control, but I chose not to. Was I angry at him? Or did I just want to relinquish myself to the storm of emotions brewing inside me?
I could sense that familiar anger creeping in—the same frustration that had surfaced during the postpartum period, when I was irritable and reactive with my partner. Allowing that dark side to take control was a conscious choice, as I often had options to deescalate. Yet in moments of heat, I chose the satisfaction of expressing my frustration outwardly, even if it meant hurting those I love. I detest that part of myself, knowing it leads to a painful low, much like the aftermath of a high for an addict.
Today, I felt ashamed for not embodying the patient mother my child deserves—the one who navigates boundaries carefully, who remains composed and loving even in tough moments. I was frustrated with myself for failing to model appropriate behavior, understanding that my actions carry weight as my children absorb my responses. I pictured them growing up to mirror my bad habits—slamming things in anger and pushing away affection. Their future partners might end up seeking therapy, recounting tales of their emotionally charged mother.
But my missteps didn’t end there. In the aftermath of my rage, I attempted to force my son to eat a yogurt, insisting he wouldn’t go to the store until he finished it. I was over the constant cycle of serving and hearing complaints about hunger just moments later. Those yogurts cost over a dollar each, and I felt justified in my insistence, despite the trauma I might have caused. Yelling at him to eat felt wrong, but I continued until I saw him reluctantly dragging himself to the table.
In that moment, guilt washed over me, and I viewed the scene from an outsider’s perspective. I picked him up and cradled him like a baby, apologizing for my behavior. His innocent response, “It’s OK. I’m sorry I was having a bad day too,” shattered my heart. We talked about the importance of family, love, and forgiveness.
We ultimately needed to escape the house, and I carried my almost-four-year-old in a baby carrier. I craved that closeness, wishing I could return to a time before conflict existed. As we walked in the rain, he rested his head on my shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”
Now that he’s tucked into bed, I’m slowly releasing the weight in my heart. Mistakes are unavoidable, but our responses to them matter far more. My children must learn that they don’t need a perfect mother; they need someone who can teach them to grow from their errors. Today, I only failed if I didn’t glean a lesson from the experience.
In conclusion, embracing imperfections in motherhood is essential for personal growth and the emotional development of our children. While we may stumble and falter, it is our ability to reflect and learn from those moments that truly shapes our parenting journey.
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