It took me a long time to decide that I wanted to become a mom. As a child, I was never even a good mom to my dolls.  I still remember that my aunt had serious concerns. My cousin’s dolls would be placed sweetly in their little doll cribs and mine would be tossed ass over teakettle into my closet. If this was how I treated my baby dolls, what kind of mother would I be?

Seriously though, I didn’t want to be a mom because I was worried that I wouldn’t be a good parent. I am no dummy. I know what my flaws and shortcomings are: I’m selfish. I rarely finish anything that I start. I like attention. I have a seriously short attention span and an even smaller amount of patience. Add the stress and pressure of perfect parenting to all these and you have a recipe for disaster. How do you take all of your flaws and parent them out of your own kid?

Obviously, I got over it. I took the leap, better late than never. I absolutely adore my child. She is the light of my life. I would die for her. Die. (Or not die. I would stay alive for her.)

But there are days when I don’t like being a mom. Just don’t like it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I don’t like being her mom, just A MOM. THE Mom. It’s hard to admit because it feels shameful. I get “touched out,” dripping with little girl smothering love. If I hear my name-no, wait, not my real name, the other one-Mommy-one more time, I will flip the fuck out, Falling Down-style. I dare you to ask me one. more. question.

I hear ya.

I hear ya.

Those are the days that I have trouble keeping up the façade of the good parent. The Girl Scout leader. The dance mom. The mommy blogger. The one who actually finds joy in being on duty all the time. Because I cannot possibly have any more answers to the question you’ve asked me ten times-we still are not getting a fish. I don’t know where your Merida doll is.  I don’t know what we should do for your birthday.   And no, I will not scrape the breading off your nuggets.

When I feel like this, when I don’t like being a mom, I have to walk away. Thank god I have a partner who I can call on to take over when I can’t, just can’t, be The Good Mom. In fact, I have a feeling I wear my angst on my face because he will often step in and tell me to take a walk. (Wait. Maybe that’s not such a good thing. Gotta work on that. Game face.)

Walking away has saved me. The minute or two I can take to regroup and remind myself to live in this moment and enable me to start again. Walking away lets me walk back in and be The Good Mom again and feel better doing it. I’m not perfect. I embrace that fact and learn from it. It’s ok to not like being a mom all the time. Walk away and come back. Walk away…and come back. What you’re coming back to is worth the journey.