Report Card

Why is it that so much of motherhood feels like failure? I can look at my kids, seeing them for the smart, sweet boys they are, and still feel like a failure. One toy to the head of my baby from the hands of my older son, and I’m riddled with guilt that I haven’t spent enough time with the oldest. He must be acting out. An unexplained rash disguising the porcelain skin of my nine-month-old—I have must have put something on him that caused the allergy. Why do we do this to ourselves?

When my three-year-old son, Will, is whining incessantly, I question myself. What am I doing that’s making him think this is an acceptable or successful behavior? I don’t, however, look at him and think, “He’s three. Three-year-olds whine.” For the woman who wasn’t happy with a 93% on a report card when she could have earned a 100%, this is not a good thing. I can’t handle failure. I can’t stand to not do my absolute best at all times. To me, that feels like failure as well.  

So, what does it look like to do my best as a stay-at-home mom? I can’t expect my kids to never fight or whine or throw things. I can’t expect for my household to run smoothly all the time. And maybe my sense of failure comes from expectations that are too high. I can’t help but think that constant evaluation of ourselves as mothers is a universal feeling, though. How many times have you heard a mother of adult children talk about the things she wished she had done differently? It plagues us all, even when we’re finished raising our children.

We once had a teenage girl stay with us for the summer. She had lived a rough home life for years, and we wanted to minister to her for a few months before she left for college. Several months before her stay, she took my car for the weekend after hers had broken down. I trusted her and had no problem lending it. That weekend, she decided to party and hang out with some friends. They were all in high school and drinking underage. She got caught. When she brought my car home the following day, we had a long talk with her. I was so impressed by my husband and his calm, rational conversation with her. We reasoned with her. We explained our feelings. We loved her. 

Later, I thought back on our conversation to see what we did so we could remember it for our own children later. The difference is this: she is not our child. We did not raise her. As much as we hoped to have influenced her life, we were not accountable for her actions—good or bad. In short, her behavior was not a reflection of us. That made all the difference. Maybe part of our overwhelming responsibility as mothers is in knowing that our children’s behavior is a reflection of the job we’ve done. Whether it’s fair or not, we will be judged on their actions. For better or worse, they are our report cards. 

I’m the first to admit that I don’t know what I’m doing as a mother. I read, I pray, I listen… and I hope. When it comes down to it, though, I’m just doing what I think is best for them. And that’s the best I can do.

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