“MOOOOoooMMMmmmYYYYyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!”
Is the scream my 2-year-old lets out as I seek solace in the darkness of my bedroom closet. My knees are to my chest as I sit there, back against the door, like a thief in the night dreading capture. I hear my husband murmur the words, “Mommy needs some breathing time. Let’s give her some space, okay?”
As they walk away, I finally hear what I was craving. SILENCE.
My sigh of relief is what brought upon the waterworks I had been holding back.
The failure as a mom hit me like a ton of bricks.
Is this normal? Am I a bad mom? Why is this so hard for me? Was I not made for this? These are not characteristics of a good parent! Am I doing this right??
That moment was not the last I have had. And you know what?
That. Is. Okay.
Those moments of doubt and desperation do not define my parenting. I have those because I. Am. Human.
Although my son sees me as his chef who can make his favorite foods, his nurse who gives miracle kisses and his boo-boos are better, his commander-in-chief who will fight off a…
