You think, Maybe if I had never given him a bite of that donut when he was 9 months old, he wouldn't have such a sweet tooth now.
Or, GAH! Maybe if I didn't yell so much, she wouldn't be snapping at her younger sister.
Or, SMH, maybe if I would have made him sleep in his bed from the beginning, he wouldn't be such a clingy little worrier.
Or maybe, just maybe, you think, If I would just keep taking my antidepressant, maybe I wouldn't yell at my kids like a crazy woman whom they will all shun one day.
Or maybe, you wake up in a perfectly great mood several days in a row, but Crabby Craberson is snapping at everyone and bringing you down. And Yelly VonYellerschnitz is driving you crazy with his stuck-on-one-decibel volume. And Pokey McOhMyGwadWhyWon'tHeHurryUp?! is threatening to push you over the brink of insanity (Or is it sanity? You don't know because YOU HAVE LOST YOUR EVER-LOVING MIND!).
And then you think, What in the hell have I created here? Because you know it is All. Your. Fault. It's always the Mom's fault. Catholic Guilt? Pfffft! That ain't got nothin' on Mom Guilt - the beast that makes us all crazy, gray-haired, wild-eyed, drooling, mental patients by the time our kids graduate from pre-school.
It convinces us we are doing it all wrong. Our kids will be screwed up for life if WE do not get OUR acts together. The hugs and kisses, the attempts at healthy home-cooked meals, the bedtime stories, volunteering as room mother - they are not enough, Woman! You must do more, you must do it better, you must do it more often. More, more, more. Better, better, better.
But you still feel it's only mess, mess, mess. And you are bitter, bitter, bitter.
Then, as if just to save your sanity, little Sweetie J. Petey comes out of nowhere and wraps his arms around your neck and says, "I luff you, Mommy," and kisses you right on your nose.
And you think, Maybe I'm not a #completefailure after all.
