I sit on the couch after laying the baby down and take a deep breath. M is still awake, and she asks “Having bad day, Mom?”  Yes, but, “No, honey. Mommy’s just tired.” It’s almost like she can sense the tension in my shoulders, the irritation of repeating myself, begging and pleading to “Take 3 more bites, please.”, “Pick up your toys and put your books away.”, “WE DON’T JUMP ON THE COUCH!”.

Now that my babies are tucked into bed I feel it, the heaviness in my heart.  Did I love them enough? Did I make them feel special and important, needed, and wanted? Did I have enough patience with them? Did I give them the same grace that they give me? 

Nobody ever told us that motherhood would be this hard, did they? Of course there was the common “Oh, just you wait til you have kids!” remark. But nobody ever told us about the guilt.  The dreaded mommy guilt – I could have done {insert action here} differently. I didn’t have to yell when she {…}. I could have slowed down and let her help. I could have read one more bed time story. I could have…I should have… 

At the end of rough days like today I attempt to reassure myself. My children are clothed. My children are safe and warm. They are loved with a love so incredibly fierce and infinite: a mother’s love. My children are fed and went to bed with full stomachs, a privilege denied to too many. My children are healthy and strong, when there are some that are not as blessed.

I am doing the best that I can and tomorrow I will do better, not for myself, but for them.

Try not to be so hard on yourself, Mama. You’re doing the best you can. I know that I am.