Today was one of those days. I think I speak for everyone when I say you never plan on having “one of those days;” sadly they just happen. In fact, if you’re like me they flatten you like a steamroller. In the midst of your positive self-affirmations, or perhaps confidently muttered prayers of “I’m gonna do better today and be more patient,” the warmonger of a bad day, mommy meltdown of epic proportions comes along and smacks you in the face.
I suck. That’s all there is to it.
That’s what you say. That’s what you think as you’re trying to backpedal yourself from the edge of the cliff that is a one-way ticket to I Can’t Friggin Handle it Anymore-ville.
So I had gone to the bathroom after making a fabulous, mostly healthy, home-cooked breakfast, and just prior to starting our homeschool lessons (which is a blog unto itself), when I noticed my four-year-old sprinting by with scrambled egg in her hair.
“Why is there egg in your hair?” I asked perplexed.
“Chloe did it!” She whined. And there began the spiral.
It wasn’t the sink full of dishes, the eight-mile long to-do list, or even the fact that toys kept multiplying out of the corners of my living room. Maybe it was those things some. And all the other things. And all the rest of the things. And the fact that only I could do all the things! But then it was also the mayhem that was scrambled eggs and toast thrown all over the dining room floor. I had caught the aftermath of a WWIII/Food Fight/WWE Smackdown involving breakfast edibles.
What the what?!!
I lost it! My seven-year-old quickly grabbed a broom, and as she swept I strongly verbalized to anyone in a half-mile radius why I couldn’t continue to be an unpaid servant around the home, how I needed help, respect, and people who know how to pick up after themselves, even if just a little bit. Momma was tired, and so was the toddler. So after a bit of a rant, I retreated to lay the youngest down for a nap.
It seemed that while I laid down on the bed next to my youngest, pretending to close my eyes, wishing I could nap too, but really thinking about all the stuff I had to do, my fourteen-year-old stepdaughter grabbed my phone and recorded a video. I’m used to them grabbing my cell and snapping silly selfies, but this particular hack left me in tears. For two minutes and nineteen seconds, my stepdaughter told me exactly what she thought about me, and it turns out it wasn’t what I thought. 
I look up to you. I know I don’t ever say it, but I do.
Me? The crazy, frazzled lady? How had I managed to ooze out anything that deserved to be emulated. I cried.
We’re lucky to have you as a mom.
I was blessed to be a mom, but most days I felt like I fouled it up big time. Many days I ended it praying that I didn’t mess it up too bad, that my kids would remember the good stuff, and quickly forget the bad. Did this mean I was doing okay?
I love you so much! You’re a wonderful mom. Don’t ever forget it.
How this child knew just what I needed to hear and exactly when I needed to hear it, I’ll never know, but I was grateful she did. Sometimes I felt like the worst mom ever, the evil stepmother, and a lunatic all rolled into one. Other times a little something came along that made me think maybe I was doing alright after all.
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