The Good Enough Mother

This wasn’t our best week.

It started off with a grumpy Sunday, which melted into a series of out-of-sorts weekdays punctuated by too-short naps and runny noses. All four of us were stressed out, and we took it out on one another, as families do.

My babysitter asked for today off, to surprise her dad for his birthday. How could I say no? I wanted to, but the ghost of my own father wagged his finger at me: What would I do for one more birthday lunch with him? How could I be so mean and miserly?

So I patted her shoulder and told her to go. But her absence today made for a week of writing here and there, five harried minutes at a time. As usual, I bit off far more than I could chew, over-confident in my ability to push out miles of copy in a short time.

Those days are gone.

Now, I have a houseful of people who need my attention. They need tending, and they need my love. The Poo has been sassy and defiant, reminding me that even though she is my big girl, my helper, she still needs me to focus on her for at least a few minutes a day.

Wednesday on the way home from preschool, I told her that I had to go upstairs to my room when we got home, and that the babysitter would play with her while I finished my work.

She sighed from the back seat. “Mama,” she said. “You’re always too busy to play with me.”

And then my mother-heart exploded all over the dashboard. I never intended to work as much as I do. It is a conflict I wasn’t prepared to deal with. After all, I quit my well-paid corporate work to be home with her. And now, I work more than I did when I sat in a cubicle all day, creating presentations and looking for ways to occupy myself.

It’s such a fine balance, this working at home. Yesterday I was on my feet all day, from 6:30 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. I literally never stopped. There was just too much to do. And the baby, when he is awake, needs constant one-on-one supervision, lest he damage property, himself, or others. I found him eating a wicker basket—literally eating it.

I was furious and tense by dinner time, and had to excuse myself in the middle of preparing The Poo’s plate after one complaint too many from the peanut gallery.

Laying on my bed, dust motes from my dirty furniture floating all around me, I cried.

I cried because I should remember that my husband and children are healthy. Because anger makes me feel guilty. Because I had words bottled up inside me and I felt like writing here was a luxury I couldn’t afford this week. Because I knew I was going to disappoint someone, because I just couldn’t get all my work done.

Then I got up, dried my face, and went downstairs to eat with my family.

Today is better, a little. Today we still have errands to run, I have to take the children to the doctor with me this afternoon at naptime, and I still have deadlines hanging over my head.

Today, though, the prairie winds are calm and the sun is shining. It was so warm at 8:45 am that I changed The Poo out of capris and into a pair of bermuda shorts. The baby is sleeping, and later, after school, I’ll abandon the kitchen and the laptop for a picnic at the playground.

This is my imperfect life. I’m slowly learning to accept the cracks in its veneer. I don’t know what it looks like from the outside, but it’s more than good enough for me.