"Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do."

I used to be a good mom.  Like, a really good mom--the kind that would make other moms want to barf a little because I was so Pinterest perfect.  It never felt like I was, but in hindsight, I had it pretty figured out.  Now that I'm a solo parent?  Not so much with the shit being together.  My shit is scattered to the ends of the universe.  And sometimes it's lost in the abyss.  In fact, I lost my shit just this morning!

It's no secret that Ivy is a wee bit of a spitfire.  All my kids are in some way or another.  Michael has mellowed in the last few years, but ages 2-7 are usually the universe's way of testing my sanity.  I don't pass.  Ivy isn't a morning person.  She's clearly ready to cut a bitch when she wakes up.  And going to bed has never been an easy feat either.  So in the end, she's even crankier for being tired.  Today, I yelled.  I got hella frustrated and let out obscenities under my breath (and a few audibly...let's be real).  I feel terrible, but I had to be strict with her.  I had to let her know that her laissez-faire approach to getting ready in the morning is unacceptable.

I also sent Michael to a jog-a-thon with zero pledges.  I can retroactively fix that, but he was upset that he'd be "jogging for nothing" today.  And it was a brutal, hour long, mandatory event with no rest for the participants.  He was allowed to walk, but I'm surely going to hear about how it ruined his entire life.

Today was just the last events in a series of epic fuck-ups that make me long for the good ole days of yore when I could stay home with the kids and craft all day instead of worry about how I'm going to stay up long enough to finish a load of laundry after work.  I'm figuring it out.  I'm getting by.  But it stings.

There's a pain in not feeling good enough to care for my own kids that gives me a burning under the skin.  Sometimes it's a minor discomfort, others it's excruciating. There's a culpability that I don't remember all the responsibilities; there is shame that I choose my own needs at times, even though it's necessary.  It's the "put your own mask on first before aiding a child" sentiment.  However, we all know mothers scoff at the flight attendants when hearing it the first few times. Eventually, after plenty of therapy, it begins to make sense. The guilt never truly dissipates though.

I suppose it's a pretty common tendency to feel this way--the human condition, if you will. Doesn't make it any less demanding on my psyche. I'd wager to say it makes it worse because I know it's okay to drop balls.  I am aware that people aren't perfection and that's what's beautiful about those who truly live.  After all, there's a reason why there are mugs that say "World's Okayest Mom."

Can they fit, "World's Okayest Single Mom Who Sometimes Does Better Than Others And Feels Really Bad About It" on one?  That's not very catchy.  Suggestions welcome.

Today's Subject Line Quote is from Voltaire.