“I’m not a bad mom.” I force myself to say it…
The three of us throw our hands into the circle, “One, two, three, FAMILY!” we shout before going into the children’s museum.
The morning was going so good. Better than good even. And then I blew it.
The three of us entered the family restroom, Boston turning on the light. I let the door shut behind Pierce and I. Except it was a heavy door, and it didn’t just shut, it slammed hard. I heard it immediately. The silent thud. I knew before I could even react–I had slammed my daughter’s precious fingers in that heavy frame. I had not realized her other hand was wrapped around the entrance.
She cried–hard. Her brother paced back and forth, back and forth, “Boston’s hand! Boston’s hand!” I held my baby tight as my own body shook.
Nothing was broken, thank God. And after an icepack, bandaid, and popsicle at first aid, she took her little bruised fingers and went back to playing. Me? I spent the rest of the morning numb.
I just wrote about grace. Just the day before. But really? Really? How could I go and mess it all up again so quickly?!
I had such a hard time focusing. I wanted with everything in me to turn back time. To erase the moment. To not have decided to use the restroom right then. I kicked myself over and over again about not being more cognizant of my surroundings. I kicked until my own body was more than bruised.
But she didn’t hold it against me. Instead, she wanted me to keep playing with her. And whenever I brought it up she responded with a simple, “It’s better now, mom.” But I saw the way she tenderly avoided using those two fingers. The way she purposely did not let them bend.
I should have been more careful. I should have watched more closely to the details of our surroundings. Oh, how I should have.
But I also had to remind myself of something even more important: I’m not a bad mom.
Even writing that is hard. Because in those moments, when we make those really stupid mistakes–whether it be a slammed finger, a harsh tone, a “close call”–that we feel anything but good.
But we are. Good moms who sometimes make mistakes–awful mistakes. But still good moms behind them. And these little ones? Well, they love us still. And they keep asking us to come be with them, to be their momma. To kiss their boo boos and wipe their tears–even the ones we are at fault for.
We are not surgeons. We do not govern countries. We have it seemingly easy, right? Just caring for little kids. And often I wonder why I find my muscles so tense. When my “job” is so simple these days.
But to have someone’s life in your hand. Someone who is completely reliant on the decisions you make each day. And to lose her would mean losing myself. And to see him hurt far outweighs any pain I could ever imagine…. This is not easy.
Stop convincing yourself it is. It is down right scary. But worth every breath.
They are our everything. And sometimes we mess us.
But we are still good moms.
Don’t forget it.
Please, don’t let me forget it either.