Today was not my shining moment as a mom. In fact, if I’m being honest, I haven’t had many of those moments lately, even before my husband’s illness. My friends and I often joked about being “bad moms” because we let our kids indulge in cookies for breakfast or binge-watch TV shows. I didn’t do it every day, but I permitted myself a break now and then, knowing that overall, I was managing parenthood reasonably well.
But today—oh, today was different. It was one of those nights where I found myself crying in the bathroom after the kids were finally asleep. The day itself was uneventful, if not a little monotonous. I let the kids have too much screen time, which resulted in them becoming restless, bickering with each other, and avoiding dinner (which, as my daughter pointed out, was “leftovers again”).
I pushed through the evening routine and somehow got everyone upstairs for showers and ready for bed. This was a familiar scene for me, often reminiscent of nights when my husband worked late. It was a routine I had grown accustomed to, performing all the tasks solo. My daughter needed help with her hair, my older son was searching for a specific book, and the youngest was refusing to wear a diaper—all happening simultaneously.
After getting the boys settled, my daughter complained I was taking too long with her. I hurried to her room, only for her baby brother to follow, which resulted in her slamming the door. He started crying, and I felt like I was back to square one. Meanwhile, my older son had decided he’d rather sleep in my bed, despite my attempts to return him to his own.
After moving him back to his room three times, I finally managed to take a shower. I was utterly exhausted and, to be honest, felt defeated. Then, I heard a soft voice: “Mommy, the wind is blowing, and there are little twigs falling from the trees.”
At that moment, I lost it. “Just go to bed! Anywhere!” I snapped. Earlier, I had yelled at my daughter over something trivial, and the only reason I hadn’t shouted at my baby was because he was glued to a YouTube video about zombies in a game. I was far from winning any “Mom of the Year” award, and instead of finding humor in it, I broke down in tears.
I couldn’t help but think of my husband and how much I missed him, especially during moments like these. I longed for the times we would lay together on our bed after the kids were asleep, staring at the ceiling and sharing our exhaustion. I missed saying, “I’m so tired,” only for him to reply, “Me too.” We’d scroll through our phones, laughing at funny videos or playing rock-paper-scissors to see who would tackle putting the baby back to bed.
Parenting is rarely glamorous, but it was a joint effort that made the load feel lighter. Sure, there were times I felt resentment when he would come home after the chaos, but most days, we felt like a team. I took so much for granted—the little things he did, like reading stories with such love and enthusiasm, even if he only made it home for the last few moments of the evening.
I miss his laughter—boisterous and contagious. I miss his tender voice during bedtime. I miss our conversations about daily events and the way he dressed up for work. But most of all, I miss having him as my partner through all the mundane moments. I miss those quiet times spent together, just being in each other’s presence.
After my shower and brushing my teeth, I decided I was done crying and headed to bed, only to find my son already there. He blinked sleepily at me and asked, “Hi, Mama. Can I stay here?” I hesitated but then agreed. “Okay, just this once.”
It’s not the same—oh, it’s not the same—but for one night, I didn’t have to stare at that blank white ceiling alone.
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In summary, grief can make the most mundane parenting moments feel overwhelming. While I navigate the challenges of single motherhood, I often find myself reminiscing about the partnership I once had. Yet, even in the toughest of days, there are small comforts to be found.
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