As I sat at a table in the Tropical Smoothie at our local YMCA, I was fully immersed in fun learning activities with my 5-year-old, Max. We were sharing laughs, journaling about our favorite people, creating bar graphs with conversation hearts, and diving into books together. I noticed a woman nearby, beaming at us, clearly thinking I was a wonderful mom.
What she didn’t realize is that just an hour before, my two sons were in a heated argument. Max was panicking about the paint smeared on his hands that wouldn’t wash off, while his little brother, Leo, was already on the step stool, hands in the sink. The space was too cramped for both, leading to a cacophony of whining and crying.
Usually, I’m the type of mom who tries to redirect their energy and treat misbehavior as a teaching moment, but I was running on empty. Despite having downed two cups of coffee, I felt completely drained before 8 a.m. Instead of stepping in, I sat quietly, applying mascara in a desperate attempt to boost my spirits. I hoped they’d resolve their dispute on their own, but I lost my patience first.
There was nothing particularly unusual about the chaos of that morning. Whining and complaining are routine in our house, yet the accumulation of it all finally pushed me over the edge. I set my mascara aside, scooped up Max, and plopped him on the couch. Ironically, I yelled at him to be calm and to stop whining. I snapped, “You’re 5! You’re not a baby! Act your age!”
In a fit of frustration, I forced a shirt onto him and insisted he was going to school, despite our recent decision to homeschool. My anger felt oddly satisfying, and in a moment of weakness, I threw an umbrella stroller across the room. I knew I was in the wrong. In trying to teach him about appropriate requests, I was modeling the opposite behavior, but I wasn’t ready to stop.
Leo approached me, demonstrating deep-breathing techniques we’d practiced together countless times, but instead of listening, I stormed to my bedroom, slamming doors along the way. Once inside, I bent over with my hands on my knees and let out a roar of frustration—relieving in the moment but leaving my throat sore later.
I emerged still shouting about Max’s outburst, and he shot back, “What about you?” Normally, I’m composed and gentle, but his response struck a chord. I snapped out of my rage and acknowledged, “We both have work to do.”
Max looked at me with a blend of disgust and hurt that pierced my heart. “I can see you’re not happy with me. What should we do?” he asked. He suggested, “Make it better and be nicer to each other.”
We climbed under a blanket in his room, where he confessed he felt bad, and I admitted I felt the same. We talked about loving not only each other but ourselves too. I encouraged him to affirm that he’s perfect just as he is. I tried to do the same, but it felt insincere. I placed my hands on my heart and shared, “It’s tough being a mom—always patient, always needed, always prioritizing others. But you’re doing just fine.” That felt genuinely comforting.
I realized he needed that understanding, too. “It’s hard being 5 with a little brother always around,” I said. He nodded in agreement, “It is.” We cuddled, and he mentioned his heart felt “cracked up,” and I admitted mine did too. I apologized for yelling and slamming the stroller, and while he didn’t let me forget it, we forgave ourselves and each other before heading to the YMCA.
Once there, we looked like a picture-perfect family. I engaged him with open-ended questions while rubbing his back and genuinely listening to his answers. I watched him draw and listened intently to every detail of his creations. In those moments, I wasn’t just perceived as a great mom; I was one. Yet, I still had my off days.
I strive to communicate with my children respectfully, empowering them and embracing their feelings. However, despite my best intentions, there are times when I fall short—times when I’m not the mom I aspire to be. Admitting that is hard, and even as I recount this, I find myself wanting to soften the truth about that stroller incident. But I can’t deny what happened.
As I sat there, with an admiring onlooker none the wiser, I realized that while I’m often nurturing, I’m also imperfect; while I’m gentle, I can still feel storms brewing inside. I’m not just one thing, and neither is anyone else.
Just the other night, I came across a quote by Walt Whitman: “I’m as bad as the worst, but thank God, I’m as good as the best.” This revelation made my redeeming qualities shine brighter. The weight of guilt lifted, and I felt a release from the pressure of perfection, recognizing that I can embody many facets of myself.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what that woman at the YMCA thought of me; her perception is only partially true. No one else’s judgment can define me entirely. I am who I choose to be, and I have the freedom to make that choice at every moment.
In the end, we all navigate the messy journey of parenting. Whether you’re taking steps toward home insemination or simply trying to understand your own parenting style, remember that you are not alone in your struggles.
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