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Worst mother, ever. (A reflection on momming)

May 3, 2018

 

 

I’m sitting on my couch crying right now, because I’m the worst mother, ever.

 

I yelled at my four year old this morning at the park because despite me asking 14 times, he wouldn’t let his brother on the swing he was on, and finally pushed his 2 year old brother, making him cry.

 

So I yelled in public at my son. I’m the worst mother, ever.

 

I have only a few days with my kids that are truly “ours”, where the pressures of my job don’t intrude on our precious hours as a little clan, me and them. And on those days, because I’m so mentally exhausted already, it’s like I can’t muster up enough energy to not lose my patience, and someone gets the brunt of that.

 

So I snap at both of them, even when they're not doing anything wrong. I’m the worst mother, ever.

 

I don’t have all the right answers for the questions about milestones and where my sons are at in the grand scheme of things. They probably don’t brush their teeth enough and my youngest probably doesn’t talk that much because I let him watch too much TV in his little life – because that’s how I got time to do, well, anything.

 

So I cry and regret so many choices I've made for them. I’m the worst mother, ever.

 

My youngest gets super unruly and cranky if he doesn’t have an afternoon nap, and when that happens, I get super unruly and cranky too, even if he’s amazing all the rest of the time. So I force his little body into the carseat so we can go for a drive, and he can get that much-needed rest. He rails against me so hard I’m sure all of his strength is going into NOT getting into the carseat, and I feel so bad because eventually I squish him in and I’m sure I’ve pinched something getting him in there.

 

So I’m filled with guilt. I’m the worst mother, ever.

 

This is the most important job in the world, and the one I’ve always wanted more than anything else in the world. Yet it’s the role I can’t control every part of, and the one where my actions will influence two other entire lifetimes, and this makes me so unnerved that I wish I could close my eyes and disappear sometimes, because I know I’m probably doing a horrible job...at my most desired job.

 

So I pity myself. I’m the worst mother, ever.

 

 

But then each morning, the same two little voices start squeaking, and they ask for me, morning after morning. When they go to bed, I tuck them in and tell them I love them and I know they believe it. 

 

And I know I have the opportunity to shake off that negative self-talk, greet every new day with everything I have, and get up the courage to try to be the best mother, ever.

 

Because to those two kids, I already am. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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