My youngest child, a 4-year-old, was in tears while his 6-year-old brother was darting around the house like a whirlwind. Meanwhile, my oldest daughter was calling out for assistance after her shower. It was no surprise that I felt utterly overwhelmed.
“Hang on,” I said firmly to my daughter, “I need to help your brother. He’s upset. You can manage on your own this time.”
“I can’t!” she protested, and she was right—she needed my assistance. But her baby brother was wailing in the other room.
“Please,” I urged desperately.
“Why do you always help the boys first?” she challenged. Again, she was right. But the screams from the bathtub were relentless. Just then, my oldest son barged in with the news that his little brother was splashing water everywhere.
I couldn’t take it anymore. “Ugh!” I muttered angrily under my breath.
Then I noticed my daughter’s expression.
“Did you just say a bad word?” she asked, her eyes wide with shock.
I hesitated, feeling tears well up. “Yes,” I admitted, struggling to find the right words.
“I can’t believe a grown-up said that!” she exclaimed.
Clearly, the situation was spiraling. More troubling was the self-doubt that my outburst brought to the forefront of my mind. Who was I becoming as a parent? What did it mean for me to resort to profanity in such a chaotic moment?
To clarify, I’ve never been one to shy away from using colorful language occasionally. I’ve always taught my children that kindness holds more weight than perfect speech. So, while swearing can be distracting and rude, it’s the intent behind the words that truly matters.
However, I had never before succumbed to such a lapse while feeling overwhelmed by my children. I didn’t want them to see me as losing control. Yet since my husband passed away earlier this year, I’ve struggled to manage even the simplest of tasks, like our nightly routine.
The truth is, single parenting is far more challenging than I had anticipated before I found myself in this position. It’s always been tough for anyone facing it alone, but experiencing it firsthand this year has opened my eyes. Perhaps it’s the shock that makes everything feel doubly impossible. Or maybe the reality is that single parenting is a struggle for everyone, regardless of their circumstances.
Reflecting on my previous interactions with single parents, I hope I offered them the kindness and understanding they deserved. I used to marvel at their ability to handle everything solo. I thought it must be nearly impossible. Now, I realize how naive I was. If I had truly understood their challenges, I would have been much less critical when witnessing their imperfect moments.
I know the guidelines: limit screen time, maintain patience, avoid yelling—even when provoked, and keep a watchful eye on their activities behind closed doors. But without a partner to share responsibilities, these tasks that once seemed manageable now feel insurmountable.
It’s frustrating when I hear someone quote “research shows” regarding parenting strategies. While they might be accurate, I can’t help but think that studies also indicate children raised by single parents often face greater challenges.
But I can’t change the past, nor can I bring my husband back. I wish I could read yet another well-meaning article shared on social media and think, “Yes, I can do that!” instead of feeling like my kids are destined for difficulties. I want to be the kind of mom who actively strives for what’s best for my children, yet I can’t summon more energy or do more than I already am. I genuinely believe I’m doing my best.
Perhaps the harshest critic is myself. I doubt anyone perceives my children as deprived or believes I’m failing. Most likely, they think I’m doing an admirable job, or at least they tell me so.
It’s my internal dialogue that’s the most punishing. The self-judgment I experience far outweighs any criticism I’ve had for others’ parenting mistakes. This has always been the case, but now that I’m doing it alone, the scrutiny intensifies. I never aspired to be a perfect mother, yet before this year, I felt I was at least a decent one. Now, uncertainty clouds my confidence.
When I realized I had uttered a curse word in front of my impressionable 9-year-old daughter, I recognized it as a significant parenting misstep. I felt the weight of every single parent’s struggle. I messed up, and I’m the sole model of parenting she has.
So when she exclaimed, “I can’t believe a grown-up said that!” I responded, “I shouldn’t have said it. I’m feeling overwhelmed and frustrated, and sometimes that leads me to use bad language. It’s not an excuse, and I’ll strive to do better. But my feelings aren’t your fault.”
Her reply? “I know.”
I’m not sure if that’s more heartbreaking or actually reassuring. It seems she understands I’m genuinely doing my utmost in this challenging situation.
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In summary, being a newly widowed parent is an overwhelming journey filled with challenges, self-doubt, and moments of frustration. It’s a learning process that requires patience—both for oneself and for the children involved.
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