The Mom Fails They Don't Remember

I have a long list of mom fails.

Or at least things I have spent years believing were mom fails.

There was the mommy meltdown in Target involving an explosive diaper.

There was buying what felt like every bottle on the market because my first son absolutely refused to take one. He ONLY wanted to nurse.

Then along came my second son, and apparently I learned nothing.

I gave him a pacifier once and suddenly he wanted nothing to do with me. Bottles ONLY.

Seriously?

There were school things I forgot to pay for. Deadlines I missed. Practices we were late to.

And there was the Justin Timberlake concert.

I was SO excited to take my oldest son, Zack, to his first big concert when he was around 10. We went to the Honda Center to see Justin Timberlake, and in my mind this was going to be one of those amazing mother-son memories.

Justin Timberlake apparently didn't get the memo.

He came on stage more than an hour late.

My 10-year-old fell asleep in his seat.

We left early.

So much for that magical childhood memory.

Some of my perceived failures weren't funny, though.

There was one particularly bad behavior day when I completely lost it. I was so overwhelmed that I backed the car out of the garage, put the garage door down and sat in the driveway by myself.

And cried.

For an hour.

There were plenty of days like that when I wondered if I was doing any of this right.

And I yelled.

A LOT.

I'm not going to rewrite history and pretend otherwise. I lost my patience. I raised my voice. I got frustrated.

I wish I had handled some of those moments differently.

But the thing I probably carried the most guilt about wasn't actually a failure at all.

Daycare

Both of my boys went to daycare when they were four months old.

Four months.

I can still remember what that felt like.

It felt like someone had cut off one of my arms.

I hated leaving them.

Like so many working moms, I wondered what I was missing. I worried about whether they were too young. I worried about whether someone else was getting moments that should have belonged to me.

Basically, I worried.

And worried.

And worried some more.

Meanwhile, do you know who wasn't worried?

My kids.

They loved daycare.

Neither of them had the separation anxiety I watched other children experience. In fact, sometimes I'd arrive early to pick them up, thinking I was giving them this wonderful surprise.

Nope.

They'd be upset because they weren't ready to leave.

Apparently Mom was the one struggling with separation anxiety.

Not them.

Yet for years, daycare remained on that mental list of things I wondered whether I had gotten wrong.

Until recently, when I decided to ask the only two people who could actually answer the question.

So I Asked Them

I talked to both boys separately about what they remembered about me as their mom when they were younger.

I specifically asked about the things I considered failures.

The yelling.

The forgotten things.

The missed deadlines.

The times I was late.

The moments when I lost my patience.

The stuff I was convinced at the time might somehow scar them for life.

Guess what?

They couldn't remember any of it.

Not one of the things I had been carrying around as evidence against myself registered as some defining childhood memory for them.

I almost laughed.

How many years had I kept a scorecard that apparently nobody else knew existed?

I remembered the day I yelled.

They didn't.

I remembered being late.

They didn't.

I remembered the thing I forgot to pay for.

They didn't.

I remembered dropping those tiny four-month-old babies off at daycare and driving away feeling like part of my body was missing.

They remembered loving daycare.

It made me wonder how many moms are doing exactly what I did.

We have one terrible Tuesday and think we've scarred our children for life.

We lose our patience and replay it that night.

We miss something and decide everyone else's mom has this figured out except us.

We see our failures in high definition.

Our kids may be experiencing something entirely different.

I'm Still Buying the Muffins

Here's the funny part.

Even after this revelation, apparently I'm not completely cured.

On weekend mornings, I am usually awake long before my boys.

Every once in a while, I'll quietly head out and pick up their favorite muffins so they're waiting for them when they wake up.

I love doing it. Acts of service “or muffins” are my love language. 

But if I'm being completely transparent, I think there's still a tiny part of me trying to make up for all those mom fails.

One muffin at a time.

As though there's some invisible parenting bank account and I'm still making deposits against withdrawals nobody else remembers.

Maybe someday I'll stop doing that.

Probably not.

They really like the muffins.

Thank Goodness for This Calm Season

Something else has changed.

I barely yell anymore.

Thank goodness.

Maybe it's because the boys are older.

Maybe it's because I'm older.

Maybe it's because I've grown.

Probably all three.

Motherhood has seasons, and I am incredibly grateful for this one.

There was the season of nursing and bottles and explosive diapers.

The daycare season.

The season of rushing from work to school to practice and trying desperately not to forget something.

The season of little boys testing boundaries and a mom who sometimes reached hers.

And now there's this.

Older boys.

More independence.

More conversations.

More perspective.

And a much calmer mom.

Would I do some things differently if I could go back?

Absolutely.

I'd yell less.

I'd give myself more grace.

I'd stop believing that every mistake was going to become a defining moment in my children's lives.

But I also know something today that the younger version of me didn't know.

My boys weren't keeping score.

That doesn't mean what we do as parents doesn't matter. Of course it matters.

We should apologize when we're wrong.

We should learn.

We should grow.

We should try to do better the next time.

But perhaps being a good mom was never about creating a childhood without mistakes.

Maybe it was about creating a childhood where the love was so much bigger than the mistakes.

I wish I could go back and tell that exhausted mom sitting in her car crying in the driveway that.

I'd tell her:

They're going to be okay.

You're going to be okay.

You are going to screw things up sometimes.

You're also going to learn.

You're going to grow.

And one day, years from now, you're going to ask those little boys about all the things you were certain you did wrong.

And they're going to have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.

Then you'll get up early on a Saturday morning and buy them muffins anyway.

Because apparently some mom habits are harder to break than others.