Sometimes, the journey of motherhood feels almost effortless. There are days when I revel in the blissful moments, convinced that I’m nailing this whole parenting gig. We glide through weeks of harmony, and I temporarily forget the challenging episodes—the times I lost my patience, when I felt the need to apologize, and the nights I went to bed with a heavy heart. During these smooth spells, I often wonder what other mothers mean when they mention “failure.” Are they simply serving hot dogs for dinner and letting cartoons take over? What’s so terrible about that? But then, without warning, life has a way of reminding me what true failure looks like.
Take today, for instance.
My little one woke up in a particularly fussy mood, channeling that whiny voice we all know too well. As usual, I crawled into bed beside him, showering him with morning cuddles and kisses—this is one of the joys of being a stay-at-home mom. When he suggested we have a playful gunfight, I eagerly accepted, but quickly realized I was floundering. I didn’t crouch low enough, nor did I make the right sound effects. My attempts fell flat, resulting in more complaints from him. Frustrated, I retreated to the kitchen to fetch my coffee and regain some semblance of dignity.
For the most part, I kept my cool throughout the day, striving for a balance of validation and detachment. It’s a crucial part of maintaining my sanity—allowing him to feel his emotions without absorbing them myself. I offered the extra hugs and comforts he craved but tried not to let his discontent affect my mood. I asked about his tough day, acknowledging that we all have them. However, as the hours passed, my own patience began to unravel.
By the afternoon, the whining had escalated to a boiling point. I had asked him repeatedly to use an appropriate tone, and yet, there I was, exclaiming, “All you do is whine! I can’t take it anymore!” I aimed for understanding and composure, but the target felt like it was slipping away. On top of it all, he accused me of being “rude.” Everything seemed rude that day—mostly my reactions, and I was fed up. “I want to go to the store for a My Little Pony coloring book!” he demanded, “Right now!”
While loading the dishwasher, I felt my patience snap. I slammed it shut with such force that a glass shattered on the top rack. The sound echoed behind me as I stormed outside, declaring, “I need a break!” His cries of “Noooo!” tugged at my heart as he reached for me. I rushed back in to clean the dangerous mess, but without a moment to collect myself, I snapped at him to stay out of the kitchen.
“What broken glass? What broken glass?” he implored, his curiosity only fueling my irritation. I shook the bag of shards and growled, “This! This broken glass!”
Returning to the living room, he asked for a hug, seeking reassurance that I still had love to give. But I was too consumed by my anger to respond kindly. I could have taken a moment to embrace him and regain my composure, but I didn’t. Was I trying to make him feel guilty? Scared? Or was I merely surrendering to the chaos within me?
I felt that familiar anger bubbling up—the same frustration I experienced during those early postpartum days when I lashed out at my partner. In those heated moments, I often choose to let that anger take over, relishing the temporary satisfaction of expressing it. Yet, I despise that part of me, knowing it leads to a painful low—much like a drug user feels after a high, drowning in guilt.
By day’s end, I felt shame wash over me for not being the patient mother my son deserves—the one who walks the fine line of boundaries with grace, the one who maintains her cool and responds with love in the hardest moments. I was frustrated with myself for failing to model the behavior I want him to learn. I envisioned my children growing up to react with anger and disdain, their spouses sending them to therapy to address the fallout of their “crazy mom.”
But that wasn’t the extent of my missteps today. In the aftermath of my dishwasher disaster, I attempted to force my son to eat a yogurt. He still wanted that coloring book, and I snapped, “I’m not going anywhere until you eat that yogurt!” I was exhausted from the constant cycle of serving and hearing complaints. Those yogurts may cost about $1.60 each, but in that moment, I wanted it gone—no matter the emotional toll on him. I felt wrong screaming at him, yet I continued until I saw him slump towards the table in compliance. Guilt washed over me as I watched.
I scooped him up in my arms and cradled him as if he were a newborn. I apologized for my earlier behavior, and he sweetly replied, “It’s OK. I’m sorry I was having a bad day too.” My heart shattered like that glass I had broken. We discussed the importance of family, love, and forgiveness.
We both needed to step outside. I carried him in a baby carrier, an almost four-year-old nestled against my back. My yearning for closeness was so intense I almost wished I could carry him back to the comfort of my womb. But instead, I secured him in place and braved the rain. He rested his head against me and whispered, “I love you.”
Now that he’s tucked into bed, I’m slowly easing the weight off my heart. Mistakes are a part of this journey, but how we respond to them is what truly matters. My children need to understand this truth more than they need a flawless mother. While I may reveal my imperfections, I can also teach them that mistakes are opportunities for growth. Today, I only truly failed if I didn’t learn something from it.
For more insights on navigating the complexities of motherhood, check out one of our other blog posts here. And if you’re exploring fertility options, this resource offers valuable information on home insemination, while this retailer provides quality at-home insemination kits.
Summary
Motherhood is filled with ups and downs, and recognizing our imperfections is part of the journey. While it’s easy to feel like a perfect parent during smooth patches, challenges remind us of our humanity. Embracing mistakes and learning from them can set a powerful example for our children.
Leave a Reply