Imperfect Parenting

Two mornings ago, I was a horrible, terrible, no good Mommy. I didn‘t want to get out of bed. I wanted to cover my head, roll over and sleep in. I longed for my teenage years when I could sleep until 12, drink until 2 and not take care of anyone but myself. As, I was drifting in and out of sleep, a harsh reality came to me. It was cold and wet, and smelled of pickles. Actually, it was Patrick bringing me the pickle jar to open. He, apparently, thought 6 am was a fine time for pickles.

I sighed and sat up. It was time to face the responsibility of motherhood. Meanwhile, Patrick is still attempting to eat the breakfast of champions by opening the pickle jar, which of course (you know it couldn’t happen any other way) spills all over my bed. I scream at him and immediately feel guilty. I shoo him away and attempt to clean up the mess. My screaming wakes Lilah, and she isn’t happy to be woken up in such a manner. (Join the crew, kid!)


So, Lilah is screaming, Patrick is crying, and I am attempting to wash the linen that is covered in the sweet smell of garlic pickles. From the kitchen I hear Corey saying very loudly “Oh no, it’s a mess’ I pour the laundry detergent into the washer, say a quick prayer to every god, saint and deity I know that it will be a small mess, and head into the kitchen. It’s no small mess. Almost an entire gallon of milk spilled onto the floor.


I am still not even fully awake yet. I want to cry over spilled milk. Whoever coined the saying “No sense crying over spilled milk” must not have been dealing with sleep deprivation, cranky children, and female hormones. I don’t cry, I scream. Again.

I clean up the milk, make the boys breakfast, and sit down. Ahh, I can relax for a moment. But, a screaming baby reminds me that I had forgotten about her, and I better get my butt up before she does something as drastic as scream even louder.

I go back upstairs to get Lilah out of the playpen. She is screaming her tiny, little, sweet head off. I pick her up, calm her down and find clothes for the boys to wear to school. I go back downstairs to get Patrick dressed, and attempt to put Lilah down. She is having none of that. A babies cry gets to me. It really does. Every fiber in my being is caterwauling at me to make it stop. So, what do I do with my precious little tot? I scream at her!

Are there any living beings that will be spared by my wrath? Watch out guinea pigs, you’re next!

I managed to scream at the boys two more times before getting them out the door to school. I felt awful all day. I have been screaming at them a lot more than I would like lately, and it sucks.

When you have grown up constantly being yelled at or hit for doing anything from just getting in the way, to something serious, its very hard to parent a different way. But, I try.

I know I shouldn‘t yell at my children. It isn’t effective in any manner, and is most likely harmful. Yelling isn’t discipline. It’s just a means for me to get my frustration out, and its not fair to my children for me to take my frustration out on them. Discipline should be calm, and gentle. Discipline has a nurturing tone of voice. Discipline teaches through communication. When a parent disciplines a child for acting unacceptably they are teaching their child why the behavior is unacceptable, not just that it is. Children are people too. I don’t believe they should be scolded or reprimanded. They should not be made to feel shamed or belittled. Yelling makes children feel all of those things. Yelling makes good kids feel like bad kids. A child should be talked to and with, not ever at.

But I am not perfect. Each and every day I attempt to be a better person than I was they day before. Some days I succeed, some days I fail. Some days I fail miserably. That day was one of those days. Today is a new day. I will move on (and so will my children) and I will try to do better. I am a perfectly imperfect parent!