Sometimes.

Sometimes... 

I get frustrated with that beautiful, squishy baby of mine. Whether it's when she's constantly whining, throwing her food all over my nice, clean outfit, or taking sips of milk only to spit them all over herself, I get frustrated. I tell her to "JUST STOP!" in a slightly louder than usual voice. I like to think I'm not the only mom who has done this, but sometimes... 

I wonder. I wonder if I AM the only one, because no one ever talks about this part of being a mother. They only talk about the lovey dovey things, the things that perfect moms do. Sometimes... 

I wish we could all be real. I wish that, instead of sharing how awesome we all are, we could share how human we all are. We could share that sometimes... 

We snap at other people. Not just our kids or our husbands, either. We all have bad days, we all have those times where we wish we could just hide under the covers all day while someone else took over our responsibilities. If we could all just cut the crap and be real with each other, we would know that sometimes...

(okay, 99% of the time) my house is an absolute disaster. There are laundry piles on the couch, toys strewn throughout the house, piles of dishes in the sink, cereal on the kitchen floor, and unmade beds. I'm not a dirty person, I promise. It's just that sometimes... 

I get overwhelmed. I go to work, I come home, I take care of Elsie and play with her, I wash and fold the laundry, I do a couple dishes, and then Mike gets home. The house looks like an absolute disaster when, in reality, I feel like I've accomplished so much. If I have, though, why is it so difficult for me to see the results of my hard work? Instead of seeing the piles of clean, folded laundry (that were once piles of dirty laundry), I see clutter. I see a mess. I see myself, failing as a wife and mother because the house isn't spotless and dinner isn't cooked and on a perfectly set table. I think that sometimes.... 

We are our own worst critics. I don't know how other people see me, but I like to think that maybe they don't judge me as harshly as I judge myself. How many of us have this problem? How many of us beat ourselves up day after day, thinking that we aren't _____________ enough? Probably a lot of us. Maybe even all of us.