For about a year, I kept a list on my phone. It didn't have a title, because giving it a title would have meant admitting what it was. But if I'm honest, it was a list of every way I was falling short as a mother.
Last Tuesday, sitting in the car outside the dental office before my shift, I read the whole thing top to bottom. Then I deleted it. And because I'm the kind of person who needs a ritual, I also wrote the worst lines on a sticky note that night and dropped it in the recycling bin next to the empty oat milk cartons.
Here's what was on it, and what I decided instead.
How the list started
Theo and June were around fourteen months old. I had just gone back to work three days a week, and on my first Thursday back, June cried so hard at drop-off that the caregiver had to peel her off my scrubs. I sat in the parking lot and typed, "June cries at drop-off. Is it because I went back too soon?"
That was item one. Within a month there were more than forty.
A few of the greatest hits
I won't share all of them, partly because some are embarrassing and partly because you probably have your own version. But here's a sampling:
- They watched two episodes of a cartoon so I could shower. Two. Not one.
- I haven't started a baby book. For either of them.
- Dinner was scrambled eggs and frozen peas. Again.
- I raised my voice when Theo dumped the whole box of cereal on the rug.
- Other moms at the park bring cut fruit in bento boxes. I brought a bag of crackers with the top rolled down.
- I was relieved when nap time started. Actually relieved.
- I haven't called my grandmother in three weeks because by 8 p.m. I can't form sentences.
Reading these now, some are funny. At the time, each one felt like evidence in a case against me.
What I noticed when I read it all at once
The list had no counterweight. Nowhere did it say "June laughed so hard at the bathtub bubbles she got the hiccups," or "Theo said 'thank you' to the bus driver without being prompted." It only collected the bad days. Of course it made me feel terrible. It was designed to.
The other thing I noticed: almost every item was about a standard I had never actually chosen. Nobody in my real life asked for bento boxes. Dan has never once mentioned a baby book. My grandmother, when I finally called her, said, "Honey, I raised four kids on bologna sandwiches. Hang up and go to sleep."
The standards were coming from somewhere, but not from the people who love me.
What I replaced it with
I didn't want to swap a guilt list for a forced gratitude journal that I'd abandon in a week. So I did something smaller.
- One line a night, any line. I keep a note called "Today" and write one sentence before bed. Sometimes it's sweet. Sometimes it's "Everyone survived and the dishwasher ran." That counts.
- A short list of what actually matters to us. Dan and I sat down on a Sunday and wrote four things: the kids feel safe, they get outside most days, we eat dinner together most nights, and we laugh. That's it. If a day hits those, it was a good day, even if dinner was eggs.
- A "good enough" rule for screens. Two episodes so I can shower is fine. I'm a person who needs to shower.
The drop-off crying, by the way
June still cries at drop-off sometimes. Her caregiver told me, kindly and more than once, that she stops within about three minutes and then spends the morning bossing the other toddlers around at the play kitchen. I believe her now. I didn't believe her when I was keeping score against myself.
If you have your own list
I'm not going to tell you to delete it. You'll know when you're ready. But I would gently suggest reading it once, all the way through, and asking whose voice it's written in. If it doesn't sound like the people who actually know you and your kids, it might not deserve the space it's taking up in your phone, or your head.
Mine is gone. The recycling truck came Friday.
I watched it drive off with the twins pressed against the front window, waving like it was a parade. That one went in the "Today" note.
