I am a failure.
As a parent.
As a parent I make the wrong choices. I say the wrong words. I yell too much. I don’t yell enough. I am lacking in my overcompensating and overcompensating in my lacking. I am a mess. I suspect I am not alone in these feelings. I suspect every parent has overwhelming moments of self-defeating doubt, even when they seem to be doing everything right. I think if we have one thing in common as parents it is that we all, at some point, feel like big fat colossal failures.
And maybe we are. Probably. Sometimes.
I beat myself up over every little misstep. I replay conversations and dissect word choice and then I rewrite it and archive it so the next time I will be better. I worry that every overreaction to simple situations and every underreaction to major milestones will send my kids straight to the psychiatrist’s couch when the truth is the only person who is crazy is me.
Last night Chris spilled a full glass of milk all over the kitchen floor. It had been a long weekend and I was tired and no one was listening and I was just done and as I was kneeling on the floor cleaning it up I found myself literally crying over spilt milk…because I’m a crazy mess.
Some parents treat their kids like an afterthought, abdicating all responsibility to the other parent in the home or a nanny or a teacher or just letting the kid figure it all out on the streets. I am the opposite. I am involved. (Too involved!) So involved I take every slight against one of my kids as a slight against me. If someone is mean to my child I make a mental list of all the ways I’m going to destroy them…it doesn’t matter if that someone is seven years old or that I’m 42 because that someone hurt my kid and they gotta pay ’cause I’m a crazy mess.
In the past week I have had to talk to my kids about racism, sexuality and why it’s not okay to wet your pants so you don’t have to stop playing Minecraft. In my attempt to keep it real, I worry that I sounded like a racist, self-hating homosexual who just doesn’t appreciate the finer points of gaming.
I love being a parent, but it is fucking hard work. I feel guilty that sometimes (all the time!) I think I deserve a reward. Like if my kids don’t say thank you or I love you or kiss my cheek before bed then they don’t appreciate all the things I’ve done for them which is unacceptable because, as they well know, I’m a crazy mess.
I’m starting to learn, or finally realize, that each of my kids are very different and that while one of them lives for my all-consuming brand of (s)mothering, the other two just need for me to back the fuck off sometimes. I’m learning to accept that they are the reward, not the kisses or the obligatory thank yous. I’m beginning to understand that it’s okay to be a failure because we’re all failures, and as long as we know that simple truth then maybe one day we won’t be even if we never stop being a crazy hot mess in the process.
But more than anything what I have learned or realized or come to understand is that while it may never be okay to wet your pants so you can keep playing Minecraft, it is totally acceptable to fantasize about destroying a seven year old who made your kid cry.