On frustration, guilt, and remembering the joy
Caleb has taken to shrieking lately.
His face turns red, his little hands tremble, and his whole body vibrates with frustration as he lets out an ear-piercing wail.
I know he’s doing it because he can’t yet express what he wants in words. But when his diaper is clean and his belly is full, I feel my own frustration rise as I try desperately to decode him. What else could he possibly need? And when the shrieking doesn’t stop, my patience wears thin.
Eventually, the guilt creeps in. I hear myself snapping: “What? What do you want, Caleb?! Please stop shrieking already!” The moment the words leave my mouth, I hate the sound of them.
Last night, after one such shriek-fest and my inevitable Mama freak-out, he didn’t even reach his arms for me when I tried to pick him up later. He turned his face away, knowing I was frustrated, and he didn’t want me.
Talk about feeling like a failure of a mother.
It brought me back to those earliest days, when I thought motherhood would be natural — instinctive, even — and discovered it was anything but. I didn’t (and still don’t) always know what he wants or needs. I stumble. I get frustrated. I get it wrong.
I look around at other mothers, the ones who gush about how wonderful it all is. They say they love the exhaustion, love the 2 a.m. feedings, love every single sacrifice because it’s “bonding.” Meanwhile I’m over here thinking: I’m exhausted. I’m frustrated. I just want to lie down for a little while.
And then I wonder: am I missing something? Because I’m awfully envious that motherhood seems so effortless for some, while I’m over here flailing, trying to do the right thing and sometimes missing the mark entirely.
But here’s what I know for certain: just because it hasn’t been easy, just because it hasn’t felt natural, just because it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever done — none of that means I love my son any less. I love him just as fiercely as those “natural” mothers do. More than I knew I was capable of loving.
So yes, sometimes he shrieks. It’s probably the most obnoxious sound he’s learned so far. My heart races, my anxiety spikes, and I have to fight to keep myself steady.
But then sometimes — he laughs. Loud, unrestrained, bubbling laughter that shakes his little body and fills the whole room. And in those moments, I couldn’t imagine anything better.
The shrieks remind me of my shortcomings.
The laughter reminds me I’m not failing.
Surely, I’ve done something right.
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