She stood in the dark doorway sobbing over an Easter basket that never came. Despite the gift-filled baskets from family members and a weekend full of festive activities, the space where the basket from mom & dad ought to have been left a void inside her broken heart.
After consoling my 10-year-old daughter with an embrace and reminder of prior occasions where we had surpassed her expectations, she calmed enough to return to bed, assured of our love, and that next year we’d try to do better. I closed the door, slithered into my bed sheets, and crumbled from the crush of “mom-guilt.”
“I’m a horrible mother,” I began to sob to my husband, “I can’t even give my kid an Easter basket.”
In that moment, it wasn’t about my daughter's tears—it was about my failures, about their piling up day after day, and my inability to do better and be better. How many times have I let down my daughter, my husband, my family? Countless. How many times have I let myself down, that I wasn’t a more gracious person, more skilled at navigating the challenges of motherhood and marriage? Innumerable. How many times have I hungered and thirsted for righteousness only to trip over my one broken flesh? Untold.
No, I wasn’t crying because I didn’t have the bandwidth for curating an Easter basket. I was crying because I didn’t have the capacity to live up to anyone’s expectations—especially my own.
After consoling my 10-year-old daughter with an embrace and reminder of prior occasions where we had surpassed her expectations, she calmed enough to return to bed, assured of our love, and that next year we’d try to do better. I closed the door, slithered into my bed sheets, and crumbled from the crush of “mom-guilt.”
“I’m a horrible mother,” I began to sob to my husband, “I can’t even give my kid an Easter basket.”
In that moment, it wasn’t about my daughter's tears—it was about my failures, about their piling up day after day, and my inability to do better and be better. How many times have I let down my daughter, my husband, my family? Countless. How many times have I let myself down, that I wasn’t a more gracious person, more skilled at navigating the challenges of motherhood and marriage? Innumerable. How many times have I hungered and thirsted for righteousness only to trip over my one broken flesh? Untold.
No, I wasn’t crying because I didn’t have the bandwidth for curating an Easter basket. I was crying because I didn’t have the capacity to live up to anyone’s expectations—especially my own.