The Strange Beauty of Bad Days

Sometimes I wonder if everyone's experience of motherhood is a roller coaster like mine: high highs, low lows, and a sense of chugging away toward some distant pinnacle only to be swept down the other side in a sometimes exhilarating and other times scream-inducing ride to the next ascent.

Is this normal? Because sometimes I wish I were on the baby rides that pitch only slightly and never come close to evoking relentless thoughts of one's fallibility.

But the good is so good. On the good days, I think the bad are worth it for these moments of unprompted, un-reminded, unsolicited kindness, gentleness, and self-control; for these sincere displays of love and joy; for these priceless windows of peace.

I guess I wonder why that spirit isn't alive everyday in every circumstance. And the self-critical part of me says if I were a good mother, everyday would be like that.

And then grace whispers in my ear that love would not be Love without the other days, without the opportunities for forgiveness on my part and theirs, without the reminder that we are all imperfect and in need of a safe place to call home while we pick ourselves up from our failures and try again.

Somehow, it is the bad days that make us truly a family.