What Will They Remember?

“Why did you call yourself a bad mommy at the doctor?” my eight year old asked me two weeks ago, sounding surprised.

“Because I ignored my instincts about you being sick.  I thought you might have strep and it turns out you did.”  I replied back.

“But why does that make you a bad mom?” she asked again.

I felt bad that she heard me saying that.  Often the mom and the voice inside my head is much more critical and harsh than who I really am.  Why am I so hard on myself?

Am I ever a bad mom?  I have my not-so-great moments, sure.  Don’t we all?

But what will my kids remember about me?  Will they focus on the occasional yelling and punishments I gave them twenty years from now?  Or will they remember us having family movie nights, playing board games and making Sunday breakfast together?

Not long ago my husband and I spoke with a friend and fellow parent about childhood memories–what we could recall, both good and bad from our personal experiences.  My husband remembered some of the unpleasant experiences he had as a kid. I could recall a few too but only after thinking deeply about it.

In my case, I don’t have a real great memory of my childhood.  It’s not that I don’t want to remember the details…  It’s just that my adult “mommy brain” thinks more in the present and is concerned with the future.  Therefore my past is often a blur.

I had a lucky, normal childhood with loving parents who had rules and enforced chores.  I was never allowed to go anyplace without my folks knowing and meeting the parents of the other kids. I’m certain I will be the same way with my girls. I already am as I have not let my oldest daughter go to a sleepover unless I know the entire family very well.

In my smart-ass, disrespectful days as a middle school child, I remember my mom would grab my arm forcefully and send me to my room.  I also had a dozen instances when I was told to “go on my knees” in the corner and stay like that for fifteen minutes or longer.  My knees would be very red.  If my parents left the room, I’d sit on my bottom instead of my knees.

I look back at this and laugh now though.  I don’t think it was torture.  I turned out okay.

What will my kids remember? Will they remember my exhausted, angry expression when I get right in their face and say, “You’re going to listen to me!”  Will they remember the time-outs and the threats I’ve given them?

Who knows? I only hope if and when they look back as an adult like I do now, they will laugh a little bit and understand that I did what I could in the heat of the tough parenting moments.  That despite reading some parenting books and trying to be patient, I sometimes lose it.  I hope they recall that I made mistakes but often apologize within minutes of my own adult tantrum.

I hope with my whole heart that they will know I love them.  I always will. That I want them to be safe, healthy and mostly happy.  That they make me work harder, love more intensely, and cause me to make a better difference in this world, now that they’re in it.

I love you girls.  I love you more each day.  I love everything and everyone more now that I experience our special bond and see the world through your eyes and reflected into my own.