Confession, I have terrible mom guilt.

I mean some days it is so bad that it keeps me up at night.

I love my kids, and I chose to be a mom, but some days… well some days I do not enjoy all that comes with being a mother.

Some days I want to scream (ok some days I do scream).

Some days the incessant fighting, crying, and whining are a bit too much for me.

Some days I actually do not want to play with them.

Some days I wish that we could skip dinner and move straight to bedtime.

Some days I want to turn on Netflix and hide in my room with all the candy in the house. Most days I don’t actually do this, ok never have I actually done this, but I will admit that there are days I really want to.

I’m pretty sure I’m screwing my kids up.

With my first, I read all the books, I attempted to teach him to learn his letters early, we worked on early literacy skills, went to every story time the library had to offer, engaged in meaningful activities to develop both his gross and fine motor skills, talked about his feelings… and then he got a brother.

Yeah pretty much all that went to crap once there were two.

I didn’t worry as much about the second one, I mean I worried (and still worry) that he isn’t getting the one on one attention his brother did and that I am not preparing him academically, but let’s be honest something had to give.

And then there’s the third one, yeah… let’s not go there on how I am not on top of helping with her academic development.

I feel guilty that I yell a lot, and by yell a lot I mean I think my voice now has one volume, and that my blood pressure is through the roof.

I worry that they won’t remember the fun things that we did, but instead they will remember mom yelling at them to “GET YOUR SHOES ON RIGHT THIS SECOND!”, or they will remember the times we left the park because they just couldn’t keep themselves together.

Sometimes I lie in bed at night and worry that they will reflect on their childhood and see a mom that was tired, and stressed, and more concerned with keeping a schedule than playing with them.

If that is what they look back and remember they will probably be right.

But the reality is they probably won’t remember my yelling or my near tears begging to get them to go to the bathroom so we can leave to yet another kid activity.

They won’t remember that I didn’t want to color the same Ninjago picture for the 20th time, they just won’t.

I think they might remember the bedtime stories, the trips to the park, the summers spent at the pool, and the the times we made cookies together.

I think that in 20 years (ok maybe 30) when they have their own kids, they will look back and think, “Maybe Mom didn’t screw up as much as we thought.”

I think they will look back on their childhoods with fond memories. Yes, there was yelling.

No, it wasn’t perfect, and it will continue to be imperfect, but they lived in a family that loved them, they were safe, well cared for (even if it meant they were served green beans), and their mom tried.

Sometimes she tried and failed, but at the end of the day maybe it’s the trying that counts the most.