Motherhood can sometimes feel effortless, creating an illusion of perfection. During those seamless weeks, it’s easy to forget the challenging moments—the times I lost my temper, the moments I felt the need to apologize, and those nights when I went to bed with a heavy heart. When the days are smooth, I struggle to grasp what other mothers mean by “failure.” Are they really that concerned about serving hot dogs for dinner or allowing cartoons to babysit? Then, unexpectedly, I am reminded of what it truly means to falter.
Like today.
My young child awoke with an incessant whine, adopting that frustrating voice reminiscent of a certain cartoon character and complaining about everything. As I usually do, I snuggled beside him in bed, showering him with morning affection. This is the joy of being a stay-at-home mom. He suggested a playful gunfight, and I was on board, except I didn’t quite execute it correctly. I failed to crouch low enough and make the right noises. Despite my efforts, he continued to criticize my performance. Frustrated, I decided to retreat downstairs for some coffee, feeling deflated.
Throughout the day, I tried to balance validating his feelings while maintaining my own emotional distance. It appeared to be a critical element of keeping my sanity—allowing him to express himself without absorbing his negativity. I provided the cuddles he craved but attempted not to let his gloomy mood affect me. I inquired about his tough day, acknowledging that everyone has them. However, as the hours progressed, my patience began to unravel.
By mid-afternoon, my child was still in a complaining mode. Despite my requests for him to use an appropriate tone, I found myself shouting, “All I hear is whining! I can’t take it anymore!” My intentions for a calm, guided day slipped further from view. He labeled me “rude,” a term that had become all too frequent, and I was done hearing it. He insisted on going to the store for a My Little Pony coloring book, demanding it “right now!”
While loading the dishwasher, I succumbed to my inner turmoil. I slammed the dishwasher shut with such force that it shattered a glass on the top rack. The sound echoed behind me as I stepped outside, exclaiming, “I need a break!” His reaction was immediate, crying out “Nooo!” with outstretched arms. I rushed back in to address the mess I had caused, still overwhelmed by my emotions. I barked at him to stay out of the kitchen, and as he questioned, “What broken glass?” I angrily shook the bag of shards, growling, “This! This broken glass!”
He returned to the dining room, expressing his desire for a hug, seeking reassurance that I was still the loving mother he knew. But in that moment, I had nothing left to give. I coldly replied, “Not right now,” with no gentleness at all. I had the choice to pause, to embrace him and regain my composure, but I didn’t. Was I trying to instill fear or merely allowing my frustrations to take control?
The anger that surfaced felt familiar, reminiscent of the sharpness I displayed during those postpartum days when my responses were irrational. Allowing that anger to consume me is a choice I make, as I have opportunities to deescalate the situation. Yet in those moments, I often prefer the fleeting satisfaction of expressing my frustration. But I despise that version of myself because when the anger subsides, I am left with deep shame and regret, much like an addict facing the aftermath of their choices.
By the end of the day, I was crestfallen for not being the patient mother he deserved—the one who handles challenges with grace, who remains composed and nurturing even in trying times. I was also frustrated at my poor example of appropriate behavior. I imagined my children growing up perpetuating these patterns, slamming doors when displeased and avoiding affection, ultimately landing them in therapy recounting stories of their temperamental mother.
However, my failures continued. Even after the dishwasher incident, I pressed my son to eat a yogurt. He still longed for that coloring book, and I snapped, “I won’t budge until you eat that yogurt.” My fatigue from constant serving led to resentment, and I found myself yelling at him to consume the yogurt. I felt wrong for my approach but persisted until I saw him dragging his weary self to the table in compliance. Guilt washed over me as I observed the scene.
I took a moment to cradle him on the couch, apologizing for my behavior. With a tender spirit, he replied, “It’s OK. I’m sorry that I was having a bad day too.” My heart shattered like the glass I had broken. We discussed the importance of love and forgiveness within a family.
Needing to escape the house, I carried him in a baby carrier, despite his nearing four years of age. My yearning for closeness was so strong that I would have willingly returned him to the womb, where comfort reigns. With rain pouring down, he nestled against me, whispering, “I love you” in my ear.
Now he is peacefully tucked into bed, and I am gradually releasing the weight in my heart. Mistakes are unavoidable, but our responses to them matter most. My children must learn that they don’t need a flawless mother. While I may reveal my imperfections, I can also demonstrate how to transform errors into growth opportunities. The only true failure today would be if I hadn’t learned from this experience.
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Summary
Motherhood is filled with ups and downs, and while I may not achieve perfection, I recognize the importance of learning from my mistakes. Acknowledging my shortcomings allows me to model resilience and growth for my children, turning moments of frustration into valuable lessons about love, forgiveness, and personal development.
Keyphrase: embracing imperfection in motherhood
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