Motherhood is a Virtue.

Today was rough. 

Rough in terms of trying to be the mother I strive to be and failing. 

Repeatedly.

Something about my three year old trying defiance on for size and my 19-month-old assertively demanding independence in the same moment doesn't gel.  Not in the slightest.

Despite a glorious, sunny day, a long trip to two parks and a ride in the jog stroller, lots of outdoor time and plenty the opportunity to run it out, my children instead bottled it up and blew their tops onto each other.

I lost my temper.  More than once.  I abandoned my commitment to making a homemade dinner and eating together.  Again.  I tallied up the months remaining until Emery starts preschool next fall and wished for them to pass quickly, lest I go insane with the energy and attention she demands from me on my days home with her. Admittedly.

Then Cristian came home and reminded me (again) that they never act like that for him.

Which made my day that much rougher.  Of course.

So it's me, is it?  They only fall out with me, it seems.  I'm their safety net.  I'm their trusted spotter.  They just free fall all their emotion and conflicted, confused, learning-how-to-live-in-this-wide-world energy into me, and I'm left to sift out the junk and hold tight the good stuff. To teach and reteach in a way that makes things right in the world.  I'm left with the button pushing, frustration and anger hurled like a brick into my hardly rested head.  I'm left with the limit testing to extremes.  I'm left with the rough days.  Alone. 

And all complaints aside, that's okay.  I'm their mother.  I signed up for this (though somewhat obliviously) when I made that first wish on my birthday candles all those years ago, and I won't shrug off that responsibility if it's the end of me (which, obviously, it may very well be, but still).  If anyone should be their safety net on this tightrope walk of life, it should be me.  If anyone wholeheartedly wants and eagerly welcomes this job for them, it's me.

But it's still rough.  And I'm still only human, mother and all.  I have to forgive myself over and over again for losing my patience or for not having enough of it for the duration.  I have to remind myself to step in their shoes and parent compassionately.  I have to breathe deeply and lean hard into the kitchen counter top ledge, trusting it will hold me upright and not give in to my white knuckled grip in my seething, frustrated mother moment.  I hold tight to my determination to respond, not react to the ruined hardwood table top we are in no position to replace or the drawn blood from a flipped-like-a-switch temper tantrum. 

But it's not easy.  It often wipes me clear out.  It's a doozie on my character building, this motherhood thing.  It's a bonafide purpose and lesson, if I've ever had one.

 At the end of the day the only thing that  makes this incredibly rough day less rough is my husband sitting down next to me and (finally) acknowledging my frustration with an, "I'm sorry you had a hard day."  I inch a little further toward an even keel by seeking out pictures of the girls I'm raising when they were in a moment when they liked each other immensely more than they did today.   I'm able to exhale a little more when I see these pictures of when they wore on their faces love for each other and honest happiness like I hope will eventually have permanence in their lives.  I have to look at these haphazardly snapped small moments and wish for them so many more of equal or greater peace with each other, and a bond that will withstand and overcome the rivalry and rough edges in life.
That's how I make it through a rough day. 
Rinse. Lather. Repeat.