“Some days…”

 
Shared by Breanne Smedley

Some days, it’s easy.

Charlee listens.
Says please and thank you.
Reads in the car silently by herself.
Randomly stops to say, “Hi, momma. I love you.” And kisses my face.
Puts her trash in the garbage and cleans up spills without being told to.
Snuggles before bed and goes to sleep within 60 seconds.

Then, there are days like yesterday.

When I question everything.

Crying from the moment she gets into her car seat.
Throwing a fit because she wants to “watch Anna” but I won’t let her.
Yelling “NO!” at the top of her lungs.
Streams of applesauce splattered on the seat from a thrown applesauce pouch.

Then, nonstop crying during CrossFit when all I want to do is just get a workout in.

Crying over the coach’s voice. Crying every time I touch the barbell.

Then, the internal chatter starts in my mind.

I’ve noticed, this voice of the Inner Critic has taken on a new form once I became a mom.

It’s way more harsh. Conniving. Diminishing.

“Everyone is staring at me.”

“I’m ruining their workout.”

“They think I’m a bad mom.”

“What did I do wrong?”

“I don’t spend enough time with her, that’s why she’s crying.”

“Is it always going to be like this?”

It’s my fault, somehow. Shame starts to creep in.

And it starts to feel overwhelming.

Negative thoughts start spiraling, and I get that feeling that I’ve tried to avoid my whole life.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

Too late.

Now we’re both crying. Great!

Thankfully, I’m surrounded by supportive and helpful coaches.

Who steps in and help, even when they have every right not to.

Stroll Charlee around while I finish my workout, despite my feelings of guilt.

And today?

It’s back to coloring, reading, cuddling.
“I love yous” and kisses.
And “Night, mama” while playing with my hair and resting her head on my shoulder.

Reminding me that tying my self-worth and competency as a mother to a toddler’s roller coaster behavior isn’t logical.

And any judgment I’ve ever consciously or subconsciously passed onto another mother isn’t necessary.

We’re already judging ourselves.

All we need to hear?

You’re doing a good job.

You’re the perfect mother for her. No one else could do it better.

Enjoy the good, roll with the bad.

It won’t last forever.

The crying. The tantrums.
But also that little, sweet voice.
Those mini arms and hands that embrace me every day.

It’s a bittersweet epiphany.

A reminder that she’s not perfect. I’m not perfect.

But our story together, is.

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