Some parts have been instinctual to me : the rocking , soothing , cuddling , responding to cries and holding them close . I sniff their heads , snuggle them , chase a dopamine high again and again . Equally I am o en clueless , useless , frantically Googling or reading Internet forums , phoning my own mother or asking experienced friends what this rash means or how to navigate the next challenge . There is so much I was not told beforehand , endless obstacles I hadn ’ t expected to encounter . As my children grow older and our family expands , I am still astounded at how I can experience virtually the full spectrum of human emotion within a matter of hours . My days can be filled with the most heart warming , euphoric highs where it feels as though the universe aligned in my favour – and mere minutes later I may be crying in the bathroom a er shouting at my too-young , too-innocent child .
How do I describe the guilt ? Endless doubts about whether I am damaging my lovely kids – it is deafening , defeating , consuming . I consider myself a confident , self-assured person but it is impossible for me to be fully confident in my mothering . I know each of the moments where I fall short , every time I let my children down . They plague me as I lay in bed at night , exhausted and spent . On my worst days , a montage of shame plays on repeat as I sink into a fitful sleep . My catalogue of errors grows each year and I fervently hope that all the love I feel outweighs some of the mistakes . When they are adults I long for them to look back and remember the mother who held them close , read countless stories with them , laughed with joy and abandon . I hope the essence of songs sung so ly in baby ears provides them comfort , that they have happy memories of us enthusiastically belting out their favourite musical numbers . I wish for them to remember the litany of “ love you ’ s ” liberally sprinkled throughout our days , recall arms that feel like home and comforting hands clasping theirs in the dead of night , never leaving them to cry alone . Perhaps if there are enough of those moments , they will offset my mistakes .
The fury and rage I o en feel has shocked me . I didn ’ t consider myself an angry person before becoming a parent . My childhood home was a calm one : not a place of yelling or harsh punishments . Both of my parents were primarily sources of kindness , joy , support and love . I have no legitimate justification for the rage that simmers below the surface of my skin , unleashed too frequently on children who deserve better . I am not violent but I am aware that anger is a poison in my parenting toolkit . My apologies are frequent , profuse – I stroke so hair and mutter “ I ’ m so sorry Mummy shouted , it ’ s not a nice way to deal with anger , is it ?” When I confess my guilt , my own mother reassures that she did get angry at us , her four children , even though my memories of maternal rage are sparse and minimal .
On my darker days I imagine all those who long for children of their own and I am overcome with horror at myself – how can I allow this fury to manifest at my precious miracles ? When I