As I lay my daughter in her crib for bed, I say “Goodnight”, even though I know I will be saying that word at least 5 more times to her throughout the night. It’s very rare that she falls asleep on the first “try.” More than likely I will be right back at her side within the next 30 minutes to comfort her to sleep.
In between putting her in her crib for the night and her actually being asleep, I hear her laughing and talking to herself. Sometimes it makes me laugh. Other times it makes me stressed out because I really want her to fall asleep before midnight. But most of the time, I’m wondering if she didn’t have such a good day because I was, well, me… a stressed-out-and-exhausted mom.
Was she crushed when I took her markers away because she tried to color on the couches? Did she wonder why I yelled at her just because she spilled her juice on the floor? Did it make her sad when I wouldn’t take her outside because it was thundering and lightening? Does she understand why I was upset over her throwing another toy at her baby brother? Is she in her crib right now wondering why I am always mad at her? Oh man, I hope not.
By the end of the day, I feel like a total-and-complete-failure of a mom. At the end of the night, the guilt sinks to my gut. Every time.
I don’t want her to have bad days. Ever. I know that’s impossible, but for right now, it’s not and I want to hold onto that for as long as I can. I want her to go to bed every night and think about how loved she is.
I want her to see how much I care about her. But there’s just no way she can.
There’s too much that I do each day that she misses.
While she’s glued to the TV, she doesn’t see that I’m quickly tidying up the living room because I don’t want her infant brother to be rolling around on the floor in a huge mess. While she’s dancing to her music (which is seriously the best and cutest thing ever), she doesn’t see that I’m doing a load of laundry because I forgot to wash her sheets (again) and now it’s 5PM, so it’s either now or never. When she’s eating the four different types of food that I made for her because she is very, very picky, she doesn’t see that I’m doing the dishes that are (somehow) a pile high again.
While she’s taking a bath, she doesn’t see that I’m cleaning up the bathroom. When she’s playing in her room, she doesn’t see that I’m putting her clothes in her closet and (trying to) neatly set up her toys (what’s the point though, amiright?) because she deserves some type of organization with the 10,000 stuffed animals she has. While she’s taking a nap (if she even naps), she definitely doesn’t see that I’m catching up on a bunch of homework towards my bachelor’s degree because that’s what I think will give her a better life.
When she does actually fall asleep for the night, she doesn’t see that I’m scrolling through my camera roll on my phone just awing over photos and videos of her from the day. And she doesn’t see when I then creep into her room and watch her sleep and listen to her snore.
Of course she can’t see all of these things. She’s living her own life, with her own experiences, so it only makes sense.
But it does make it hard, and makes me wonder if she knows just how much she is loved.
A small part of me will always believe that some how she got a peak at all the many things I have done and will do for her.