By Bethany Broderick
@bethanygbroderick

I drop my phone next to the container of baby wipes and begin to change my son’s diaper. I’m half-listening to my college-aged sister’s detailed description of her avocado toast on our family’s Marco Polo chat. When her minutes-long monologue ends at 8:11 a.m., I tap the screen to close the app. Picking up a tube of diaper cream, I carry on with my less-picturesque Monday morning of cold coffee, dirty diapers, and grumpy children.

At 8:21 a.m., my phone vibrates and alerts me of a new Marco Polo message. My sister’s face fills the screen. “Bethany!” she cackles, “I don’t think you realized you were recording yourself!”

My mouth drops. I notice the thumbnail below revealing the nursery ceiling fan and my double chin. My finger hovers over it, unsure if I wanted to watch an instant replay of the previous ten minutes. Curiosity overcomes my embarrassment. I tap the image.

I see a mom wrangle her son onto the changing table. She sighs and rubs the circles under her eyes before slathering thick white cream onto the baby’s angry bottom. She repeats an instruction to her toddler daughter two times. Make that three. Yet her daughter still disobeys, and the mother raises her voice to stop the child from eating an unknown substance (presumably poop). I hear the toddler’s lower lip jut out in defiance and wails echo in the small nursery. The mother exits the digital stage, and I watch the ceiling fan whirl as the mom uses a hug and a distraction to calm the now two crying children. She comes into view once again, and I glimpse strands of hair falling out of her ponytail before the phone drops into the black pocket of her leggings.

I grimace when the show is over and immediately start a new message to clarify my actions (and inform my family that it was just an old piece of granola bar, not poop, my toddler had put in her mouth).

Seconds after my defense, my sister’s face returns. “Don’t worry, Bethy,” her voice softer than before. “I think you’re doing a great job as a mom.”

Despite her kind words, I can’t shake the shame and weariness that overwhelms me after watching the video. My inner critic argues with my sister’s assessment, But am I really doing a good job as a mom? 

***

After a successful although later-than-normal bedtime routine, I collapse next to my husband on the couch. Without a word, I hand him the remote control, and he queues up the latest episode of Ted Lasso. Right before he clicks the button to play, I sheepishly whisper, “I’m sorry about tonight.”

Remote in his hand, still elevated, he turns his head in surprise, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, you know, things didn’t go as I planned.”

I close my eyes, and a recap video of the evening’s festivities replays in my head. We attended a church event, which I thought would be fun, but ended up with our uncontainable 15-month-old son scattering papers and pens across the floor, and our 3-year-old daughter breaking down in tears because she couldn’t have another cookie.

“I forgot to put the water and snacks in kids’ bag, so they got hangry,” I begin. “I can’t believe I made that awkward comment to our friends. And I know you didn’t want to leave early, but I was just so tired.”

I continue listing other self-accusations. “I’m just sorry I messed up tonight.”

After the most severe pandemic regulations were lifted, I had been trying to make up the lost time for our family. More playdates, more church events, more moments for family memories, but the more I added, the less I was able to keep it together. Tonight wasn’t the first time I had arrived home feeling like my weaknesses as a mother had been put on full display.  

“Those things weren’t your fault. You don’t need to apologize,” he says, pulling me close. Then he adds, “And even if they were, the kids still had a great time tonight. I had a great time tonight.”

I watch a wheel spin on the TV, feeling the same aimless striving. Even with all my detailed spreadsheets and to-do lists and color-coded calendars, it seems like I always fall short. “I just don’t feel like I’m doing a good job as a mom.”

My husband lowers the remote and clasps my fidgeting hands in his, “You’re the best mom.” I nod, tears threatening my eyes as I try to believe his words. He squeezes my hand one last time, then picks up the remote and presses play. I lean into my husband while we watch Coach Lasso give one pep talk after another, but not even Ted’s persistent optimism can make me accept my husband’s declaration. It’s not enough to overcome the voice inside questioning me: How can I even be a good mom when I mess up so much?

***

As an online college professor, students frequently email me with various excuses and requests for assignment extensions. Sometimes their explanations are as vague as “having a hard week,” while others provide unnecessary details about medical diagnoses and procedures. As a teacher, these excuses are frustrating (especially when I’m trying to submit final grades). But as a struggling, perfectionist mother, I understand.

I constantly make excuses for myself—for my snot-smeared cardigan, for my rambunctious children, for the tumbleweeds of cat hair and goldfish crumbs rolling across my living room floor. Even when I’m not being secretly recorded by a social media app, I feel the eyes of an invisible judge and jury following me around my home.

Doesn’t enjoy building and knocking over the same pile of blocks with her son.
Snapped at her daughter for interrupting her while she wrote a caption for Instagram.
Agreed to another game of hide-and-seek so she can have a moment alone.

Inner accusations accost me throughout my day, yet I attempt to prove them wrong—prove I can live up to some ambiguous yet high standard of motherhood. Nonetheless, when I fall into bed at night and an instant replay of the day begins in my mind, I believe the verdict is already in—not good enough.

While I get annoyed by my students’ excuses of “family issues” or “feeling sick,” I still usually show them a little grace in the form of a deadline extension or an opportunity to resubmit. But when it comes to my own apologies, I withhold that same grace from myself.

My sister and husband are willing to show me grace for my failings—to believe the best in me. My children show me grace in the form of snuggles and snotty kisses, unconditionally loving me despite my mistakes. My friends offer sympathetic smiles and reassurance that they, too, struggle in motherhood. Even my Creator God—who intentionally made me with strengths and weaknesses, abilities and limits—shows me grace upon grace even on the hardest of Monday mornings.

So why do I still hold this grace at an arm’s distance?

***

A few hours after the Marco Polo mishap, I open the app to watch the video once more. This time, I choose to silence the inner critic and instead believe the words that are more trustworthy—from my sister, my husband, and, most importantly for me, my God. 

I take a deep breath, then replay the message.

This time, I see a mother croon a hymn to distract her son from his painful diaper rash. I see a mom who looks up when her daughter wants to show her something. I feel her maternal instinct as she attempts to protect her daughter from ingesting something  potentially harmful. I hear the mom’s knees drop to the floor and her voice whisper to her shrieking daughter, “I’m so sorry I scared you, but I don’t want you to get hurt.” And I feel the love emanate through the screen as the mother smiles and takes her daughter’s hand before the video goes dark.

I catch myself giggling as if I were watching an America’s Funniest Home Video clip. I laugh in freedom—knowing I am truly not the “best mom in the world.” I have weaknesses; I have limits. And that’s okay, because I believe the voices echoing around me, that I am accepted for who I am. In their eyes, I am a good mom.

Before, all I saw was a mom barely surviving a Monday morning. Now, I see a mother faithfully doing her holy work, even when—she thinks—no one is watching.

Guest essay written by Bethany Broderick. Bethany lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with her husband, 4-year-old daughter, and 1-year-old son. A recovering perfectionist, she writes about resting in God’s grace in the everyday moments of life as a woman, wife, and mother. She is a regular contributor for Momma Theologians and The Joyful Life. Her writing has also been featured on Risen Motherhood, Kindred Mom, and her personal blog.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.