Bad moments. Not bad mothers.

This is something I read somewhere that I feel I need to get tattooed on myself. Somewhere I can see it daily. Like on my forehead so when I check out my frizzy hair and my newly zitty face in the mirror I can see it. And then every other time I see it throughout the day I might just remember that bad moments don’t make me a bad mom. Even if I REALLY REALLY feel like they do. Because some days, and more days than not lately, I feel like all I have are bad moments.

I don’t want to be the mom who yells at her toddler. I don’t. I go to bed each night telling myself I will be patient and understanding and I won’t yell or get angry or have a screaming mini-meltdown when my toddler doesn’t listen to me for the 73rd time that hour. And some days I follow my rules. And other days, which seem to be getting more frequent, I fail miserably. I read a post some time ago that I apparently need to print out and paste in various locations all over my house. You can read it here. If you don’t want to read it it basically talks about those moments you lose yourself because satan is digging at your self-esteem, your resolve, your patience, and playing up your inadequacies. But you should read it because it’s way better than my summary.

I want to be the mom that shows her children grace when they need it and consistency in the discipline they receive. I don’t want to lose my patience and yell and hurt the sweet heart of my precious boy. He is struggling with listening and obeying and doing the things he wants to do. I am struggling with being patient and consistent and teaching gently instead of being a shrew.

I’m not a bad mom. I love my children with every fiber of my being. I wouldn’t trade them for the world (even if I sometimes threaten to sell them to the gypsies). We have fun together and play and talk and I love those interactions. I know my son is growing and learning and I know I am too. I am growing in my role as their mom and learning how to navigate this new age and stage and the differences in having two.

So tomorrow, once again, I’ll try to be patient. I’ll try to use the right words to teach instead of yell. I’ll try to remember compassion when he’s melting down (again) because his napkin fell on the floor. And I might fail. Because I’m not perfect. I’m human and I’m flawed. But I will remember these precious gifts I’ve been given. I’ll remember that they are mine to teach and raise and love. And I will do my best.

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