I’ve always known I was meant to be a mother.   Even as a child I was told I was a natural with children.  If a fussy baby needed calming, within minutes in my arms all was well.  Being around children and babies always just felt like perfection to me.  I went into parenthood completely prepared to be the perfect mother. 
Within weeks of bringing home my first precious little bundle, I knew that being a mother was amazing and joyful, but also more challenging than I had anticipated.  My baby girl went through a period of pretty intense fussiness.  Call it “colic,” call it “gas,” call it “over-stimulation;” for me it was called the closest I’ve been to insanity.  I cannot put words to the frustration and helplessness associated with an inconsolable baby.    I was completely at a loss.  I, the self-proclaimed baby whisperer, could not calm my own baby.  

One particular night, it was brutal.  She was screaming and flailing.  Holding her was just making it worse.  I was stunned into silence by the mighty wails coming forth from this child and in the intensity of the moment; my husband said to me, “You look like you want to throw that baby out the window.”   I was completely appalled.  How could he say such a thing? Could I really look that desperate?   I was devastated.   I sat shushing and rocking my daughter, absolutely at my wit’s end and I had no idea what to do. 

Eventually she calmed down and went to sleep.  I, however, though completely exhausted could not rest.  The words kept echoing through my mind.  I knew he wasn’t being serious, but I felt so ashamed to have even appeared in a way that would invoke that response.  What was wrong with me?  What kind of mother could be so frustrated with a helpless little baby? 

I beat myself up for a long time over those words.  I hadn’t done anything wrong.  In fact, going by the book, I did everything I should have done to try to console my baby.  But I could not get past the fact that I must have appeared to be “losing it.”  I even revisited that night with my husband just to assure him that I would never throw our baby out the window.  He thought I was ridiculous for even mentioning it.  He was trying to be light-hearted in an intense situation and obviously was not concerned with my parenting ability.  I was just taking it all so personally.   And really, that was my first mistake.  It wasn’t personal.  I was not failing by any means.  Babies cry.  Sometimes babies cry a lot.  And when they cry incessantly, sometimes parents get worn thin.  The only unusual thing about our situation was the expectation I had placed on myself.   I wasn’t frustrated with my baby.  I was frustrated with myself because I couldn’t calm her.  I wanted so badly to be the perfect mommy.  I wanted to be able to fix everything instantly but reality had set in and it was quite a wake-up call.  Babies are completely unpredictable.  To expect a perfect response to every situation was just ludicrous!  I even dare to say impossible. 

Needless to say a lot has changed.  As my daughter grew and we added another into the mix, I learned to take most everything in stride.  In fact, the “out the window” remark has become a staple in our house.  When my husband calls to check in on a rather challenging afternoon, he may hear that we’re having a “throw the toddler out the window day.”  Frankly, I’ve even had a “throw the husband out the window” day or two.  
I don’t strive for perfection anymore.  I like to think it’s more of a “perfectly imperfect” approach.  I don’t take anything personally when it comes to my kids.  I said goodbye to that feeble, perfection-seeking mom a long time ago.  Now I’m more of a seasoned veteran on the battlefield we call parenting and there is only one thing I know for sure.  When you’re in the trenches, there is no such thing as a perfect response.  There is only perfect love.  And really, that’s all that matters.

Melanie Chezem is a freelance writer and stay-at-home mom to two little girls.  Whether it's life as a mom or life in general, she tells it like it is at www.mommyspills.com