Motherhood can sometimes feel like a breeze, where everything aligns perfectly, and I find myself in a rhythm that makes me believe I am the ideal mom. During these smooth stretches, I almost forget the challenging days—the moments when I lost my patience, when I offered apologies, or when I fell asleep with a weight on my heart. During these calmer times, I struggle to comprehend what other mothers mean when they refer to “failure.” Are they referring to making hot dogs for dinner while letting cartoon characters take over? What could possibly deserve such a harsh label? Then, just like that, life reminds me of what failure truly looks like.
Take today, for instance.
My preschooler woke up in a mood, whining and needing attention, speaking in that grating tone reminiscent of a certain cartoon character. As always, I snuggled up next to him for our morning cuddles. This is the joy of being a stay-at-home mom. He proposed a playful gunfight, and naturally, I was all in. But I wasn’t executing it correctly—I crouched too high and failed to make the right sound effects. No matter how hard I tried, he continued to express his dissatisfaction. Frustrated, I decided to retreat downstairs for my coffee and a moment of dignity.
I kept my composure for the majority of the day, balancing between acknowledging his feelings and maintaining some emotional distance. This seems to be part of the sanity puzzle—allowing him to feel his emotions without absorbing them myself. I provided the extra affection he craved but tried to ensure his melancholy didn’t affect me. When I asked why he was struggling, I acknowledged that we all have tough days. However, as the hours passed, I felt my patience unraveling.
By 3 p.m., he was still whining. After reminding him to use a more appropriate voice, I snapped, “All you do is whine! I can’t take it anymore!” I aimed for warmth and control, but I was losing sight of that goal. In addition to his complaints, he called me “rude.” Lately, everything seems rude—mostly, it was me—and I was reaching my limit. He wanted to go to the store for a My Little Pony coloring book, insisting, “Right now!”
While loading the dishwasher, I succumbed to my mounting frustration. I slammed the door shut, causing a glass to shatter inside. I heard the glass break as I stepped outside, exclaiming, “I need a break!” He started to cry, reaching for me, pleading, “Noooo!” I rushed back in, realizing I needed to clean up the dangerous mess I had created. Instead of taking a moment to regain my composure, I barked at him to stay out of the kitchen. He approached, confused, asking, “What broken glass? What broken glass?”
In my anger, I shook the bag containing the shards and hissed, “This! This broken glass!” He retreated to the dining room, expressing a desire for a hug. He needed reassurance that I still had love to share, but at that moment, I felt empty. I told him, “Not right now,” and my tone was far from gentle. I could have paused to embrace him and regain my calm, but instead, I let my frustration take over. Did I want him to feel scared? Or was I simply indulging the anger that had begun to bubble up inside me?
I could sense that angry version of myself resurfacing—the same one who had been sharp and irrational in those tumultuous postpartum days. Allowing her to take control was a choice I was making, as I had the opportunity to de-escalate, but in the heat of the moment, I didn’t want to. I preferred the momentary satisfaction of slamming the dishwasher or glaring at my partner. Yet, deep down, I despised this version of myself because it brought me to a painful low—much like a junkie feeling shame after a high.
Today, I felt ashamed for not being the mother my son deserved—the patient one who maintains boundaries while showing love, the one who stays composed and speaks softly when it matters most. I was also frustrated with myself for modeling inappropriate behavior. My actions carry significant weight, and these little ones are always watching. I imagined my children growing up to express anger by slamming things and growling at those who offer affection. Their partners might send them to therapy, recounting tales of their unpredictable mother.
But my failures didn’t end there.
In the midst of my dishwasher-induced rage, I attempted to force my son to eat yogurt. He still insisted on going to the store for that coloring book, and I snapped, “I’m not going anywhere until you finish that yogurt!” I was tired of serving food only to hear complaints ten minutes later. Those yogurts are nearly $1.60 each, and in my frustration, I didn’t care if I’d just traumatized him—I wanted that container empty. I felt wrong yelling at him to eat, yet I continued until he reluctantly dragged himself to the table to comply. I saw the situation unfold like a bystander, and guilt washed over me.
I took him to the couch, cradling him like a newborn. I apologized for my behavior, and his innocent response was, “It’s OK. I’m sorry I was having a bad day too.” My heart broke into pieces. We talked about being a family, about loving and forgiving each other constantly.
We needed to get out of the house, so I carried him in an Ergo, backpack-style. Yes, my almost-four-year-old fit snugly in a baby carrier. I craved that closeness; I would have put him back in my womb if it meant comfort without conflict. But since that wasn’t possible, I wrapped him close and secured him in place. The rain poured down on us as he rested his head on my shoulder, whispering “I love you” in my ear.
Now, as he lies in bed, I release the heaviness in my heart. Mistakes are a part of life, but what truly matters is how we respond to them. My children need to understand this more than they need a flawless mother. Even when I expose my imperfections, I can teach them to view mistakes as chances for growth. I only failed today if I didn’t learn from it.
In conclusion, motherhood is not about being perfect; it’s about navigating the challenges and learning along the way. Mistakes are inevitable, but they offer valuable lessons that help us grow as parents. Embracing our flaws and learning from them is what truly shapes us.
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