As a mum, have you ever had one of those days?
You know the kind where you’re desperately trying to hold yourself together with half a hair tie and a prayer, while the day just drags on like the world’s slowest soap opera. You’re smiling through clenched teeth, mentally checking off how many hours until bedtime like it’s some kind of twisted countdown to freedom.
And then bedtime arrives(oh joy!). The grand finale. The one sliver of hope you’ve been clinging to all day. The moment you imagine yourself sliding into silence, maybe pouring a glass of wine, maybe just not being touched for 30 seconds. But of course, no. No peace for you, weary warrior. Because it’s bedtime. And bedtime is apparently the toddler version of a hostage negotiation.
My toddler fights sleep like I’m a dentist trying to extract his last molar without anesthesia. He’ll suddenly have the need to look for his decimated yellow crayon, a paralyzing thirst and the existential need to know where the trains go to sleep. All at once. And on this particular night, I snapped. Not a tiny sigh-snap. Not a silent tear-snap. Oh no. I went full “end-of-my-rope, steam-out-of-my-ears” snap.
Cue the screaming. His. Mine. Honestly, I’m not sure who started it. But there we were, two tired souls crying out loud in an emotional face-off. Except one of us was in dino pajamas and the other was supposed to be the adult.
My mind? Overwhelmed. My body? Touched out. All I wanted was to be left alone with a book or wine or wine and a book and maybe Netflix judging me for watching the Gilmore Girls for the ninth time. But NO.
I finally scraped up some kind of leftover reserve of maternal strength from the pits of my soul and managed to soothe him. We got into bed. Peace. Silence. A moment.
And then… he said it.
“I don’t trust you. You snapped at me.”
Pow. Direct hit. No mercy. Toddler: 1. Me: emotionally obliterated.
My mom guilt came barreling in like a freight train with failed brakes. My exhausted brain could barely process his words and I started crying. Big, hot, guilty tears. I was the one crying now. The adult. The role model. The “mature” one. And then, because children are emotionally advanced tiny aliens sent to humble us, he did the thing.
He comforted me.
He told me he loved me. Told me we’re best friends. Told me to turn my frown upside down. And then, I kid you not, he brought out his toy camera, turned my cheeks upward into a smile with his tiny hands and took pictures of my fake smile so I could “see how pretty I look.”
I was speechless. This child, this fierce bedtime-resistant warrior, this emotional enigma who usually expresses love with only a look or a smile, was suddenly the embodiment of compassion.
He doesn’t hug a lot. Doesn’t do kissies. Doesn’t recite “I love you” on cue. But somehow, in that moment, he knew what I needed, not just as his mum, but as a tired, broken human trying her best. And he gave it to me. Unprompted. With his own little language of love.
And I smiled. And I cried. Again. Because a few minutes before, I had met his tears with frustration. With zero grace. Because I had nothing left to give. And yet, he found something to give me.
That’s the brutal, beautiful truth of motherhood. It’s a paradox of exhaustion and joy. It breaks you in all the wrong places and then fills you up again in the most unexpected, healing ways.
These tiny moments, the ones no one sees, the ones you’ll never capture perfectly for Instagram — they are everything. They’re what makes the whole mess of motherhood feel worth it. It’s in those moments that you understand what unconditional love actually looks like. It’s raw. It’s imperfect. It’s completely maddening.
But it’s real.
Motherhood is hard. It’s the hardest damn thing I’ve ever done. And it will probably remain the hardest thing I ever do. But somehow, in the middle of the chaos, there’s magic. And if you’re lucky, even on the worst nights, that magic will come in the form of a tiny hand lifting your chin saying, “Smile, Mama. You’re look pretty when you smile.”
And honestly? That’s enough to try again tomorrow.
Novembrella 