I’ve been nursing a headache off and on for over a week. It comes and goes, and isn’t terrible, not like the migraines I had as a child. It seems more of a nuisance than anything, like the hoard of houseflies that camp outside my back door waiting to ambush and sneak inside each and every time I open the door for even a second.
My husband thinks they’re from the Aspartame, the headaches, not the flies, and all I can think is, Oh God, I hope not! I really have quite the affection for Diet Coke.
I began to wonder both yesterday and then again today if perhaps the persistent ache had anything to do with the persistent raising of volume in my voice. I’d been yelling at the kids a lot, and even though my dear little tyrants were probably asking for it, I felt guilty nonetheless. Actually, I felt terrible.
As I charged angrily though the back door, letting in no less than ten flies I’m sure, with a crying baby on my hip who tried with every fiber of her little body to free my breast from my bathing suit, I knew I was close to my boiling point, and had probably already surpassed it.
Water, or maybe pee, poured down my leg from the squirmy, wet baby, and a questioning preschooler stepped on my flip-flop as she followed closely behind.
“I can’t stand it anymore! I’m done!”
The words escaped my lips, and no matter how much I wanted to reel them back inside, spoken in exasperated anger is how they remained. That would probably be fine if that was the first thing I had said in anger that day, but I knew that it wasn’t, and I felt as low as the grassy, pool water puddle forming on the entryway rug.
Why couldn’t they just have fun?! I wondered to myself for probably the millionth time since I first had kids. It seems a large part of motherhood is spent coming up with brilliant ways to entertain your offspring, but they usually refuse to cooperate with your stellar planning. Everything fun makes a huge mess, going anywhere outside of your home is hardly worth the effort, and most awesome adventures usually end it tears. It’s enough to dishearten anyone. Either that, or make you feel slightly crazy.
And as my thoughts of failure over yelling at my babies covered me like I’d been tarred and feathered by my own guilt I indeed felt less than sane. You start to wonder, how can I love this person more than myself, more than I ever knew was possible, yet have images of causing them bodily harm?! Like seriously, if she doesn’t stop crying I might throw her, or start crying myself and never stop.
It’s those thoughts, the ones you quickly dismiss and never talk about again that make you feel crazy, that make you feel like a bad mom. You don’t throw them, or harm them physically in any way. Rather, it’s the moments when you scream in frustration that make you think, I’m not good at this! Not at all!
How you can gaze at your child lovingly and feel like your heart will burst with the emotion, but then later feel like your patience is crumbling in the face of so much difficulty is beyond me. How can you not be an endless fount of love and kindness for little people whom you would give your last breath, laying down your own life without hesitation? How can you get so short-tempered and frustrated with the greatest gift you ever received?
I don’t know. I don’t know, and it makes me feel like I am just not good at this parenting thing. I pull my babies into my lap and I pray that I haven’t hurt them in some way with my thoughtless words and raised voice.
Even as they smile tenderly and wrap their loving arms around me, never seeming to notice anything is amiss, I pray to somehow be better for them. Better tomorrow than I am today.
I suppose it’s that hope that I can do better. It’s the fact that I know deep down I’m doing really well, that despite my feelings of failure I know my kids love me, and they never for a moment doubt my love for them. I know this.
But still, in those moments where my head pounds, my voice raises, and I cannot hit rewind no matter how hard I try, it’s those moments that make me think for a moment, I’m not good at this.
I shake those thoughts, banishing them like the ache in my brain, and I keep going because I love it. Despite the frustration, I love it all more than I ever knew I could.
I love the tears because with it comes hugs. I love the moments where I fall short because with it comes grace. I love the chaos, mishaps, and tantrums because without them it wouldn’t be the same.
“Y’all are so crazy!” I told my daughter, to which she replied, “No we’re not. We’re cuddly!” I hugged them closer, and I breathed in their sweet smell. I felt such peace then.
“Yes. Yes you are.” And as I held a precocious daughter in each arm I thought, maybe, just maybe I’m doing good at this…