I have this deep-seated fear that you guys are going to grow up to write a tell-all book about me called Mean Mommy.
I know that I yell at you. Probably everyday. It’s not always the loud, throat burning shouting, but yes, sometimes it is even like that. I always feel quite horrible afterwards. I always vow to keep my patience next time. I really, really try.
Sometimes I get so angry, I have to leave the room, not because I don’t want to be with you, but for your own safety. I’m not proud of this, little ones.
I imagine at times like those that I look a lot like Faye Dunaway in the infamous wire hangers scene. I can only hope that I’m a little more Roseanne Conner than Joan Crawford. I certainly fit better in the former’s wardrobe. You don’t know who these characters are, but, trust me, not flattering comparisons for dear ol’ Mom.
One day you’ll know, as I know, that most, if not all, Moms have moments like these. At least if blogs and books like Scary Mommy are to be believed. It’s still so defeating. And not how I hoped to be.
Lala and Loopsy, I hope you remember the mornings we cuddled together and talked about our dreams and princesses and fairyland. I hope you’ll look fondly back on the times we went to the playground and then got ice cream or how you’d both squish onto my lap on the carpet at story time. I hope you hold onto vivid memories of the times I painted your nails or braided your hair. I hope you recall the smell of my perfume when I tucked you in bed and sang you to sleep.
I hope I can be more Meaningful Mommy than Mean Mommy.
Maybe you can just write a book about Daddy instead 😉