It was 7:30 AM when my daughter approached me, concerned. “What’s wrong, Mommy? Are you okay?” she asked, noticing me crumpled on the living room floor, tears streaming down my face as I clutched my fifth cup of coffee. At this early hour, while many were just beginning their day, I felt like I had already lost the battle.
“Mommy’s just feeling a bit sad, sweetheart,” I replied.
“Why sad, Mom?” she inquired, gently patting my back with a kindness I couldn’t muster for myself.
“I’m sad because my coffee is all gone,” I told her, though what I really thought was, “I’m sad because I’m at my wit’s end. I can’t handle this motherhood thing anymore. I’m a terrible parent. I just can’t seem to get anything right. I can’t imagine facing another day of this—let alone a lifetime. This is overwhelming. I’m failing.”
Was that overdramatic? Absolutely. Was it true? Probably not. But in that moment, it felt painfully accurate. I had a long list of reasons supporting my worries.
Crying in front of my kids didn’t seem healthy. I had already raised my voice at my son countless times that morning for his relentless habit of climbing onto the dining room table. How many times could I say, “Stop hitting your sister,” before I surrendered to chaos?
My children often ate their meals picnic-style in front of an episode of Curious George because some days, the battle to get them to sit nicely at the table was just too much to handle. I found myself escaping to the bathroom for brief moments of solitude, wishing I could click my heels and be transported to a happier place, away from the mess of my reality.
My kids weren’t eating enough vegetables; they consumed too many snacks and watched far too much television. I struggled with effective discipline and often felt lost about how to engage with them throughout the day. The list of my perceived failures was endless.
That morning, I was convinced I was the worst mother in the world. Yet that evening, while vacuuming up what seemed like an entire box of cereal from the floor, a moment of clarity struck me.
I’m not a bad parent. I’m just a normal one.
Once I stopped drowning in my own guilt and tears, I remembered blog posts I had read, conversations with friends, and books I had perused (back when my kids hadn’t torn them to shreds). I recalled that:
- Other mothers also raise their voices at times.
- Other mothers struggle to sleep due to guilt.
- Other mothers occasionally serve cereal for dinner and call it a win.
- Other mothers live in homes with dirty bathrooms and sticky floors.
- Other mothers take refuge in closets for a moment’s peace.
- Other mothers sometimes run out of ideas for activities with their toddlers.
- Other mothers wish their children would go back to sleep when they wake at the crack of dawn.
- Other mothers worry they’re making mistakes with their kids.
If all these women—friends and strangers alike—were facing similar challenges, then it surely wasn’t just me. And if we’re all navigating the same turbulent waters, then I am not a bad parent; I’m simply normal.
What a relief that realization was.
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Summary
This reflection addresses the struggles of motherhood, revealing that many moms experience similar challenges. Rather than feeling inadequate, it’s essential to recognize that these feelings are common and that being a good parent means embracing the normal ups and downs of raising children.