As I flip and turn in bed, trying to get comfortable, it hits me.
A wave so painful it seems to hit with a sharp, stabbing force.
Memories, one after another, piling on top of each other, fighting their way as fleeting moments trying to be heard.
A tiny purple nightgown, nap time snuggles, angry, careless words, long-suffering sighs.
Tears fall as I start to cry, the shame overpowering me as I hope I don’t wake my husband up.
I hate moments like these.
It’s almost as if this pregnancy has brought to light all the mistakes, regrets, and misgivings I’ve had over the past six years as a mother.
I’m questioning, wondering, remembering.
Am I doing a good job? Can I possibly be the mother all four of my children need me to be?
My mind flits back of its own accord to the sight of a two-year-old, grown up faster than she needed to be simply because I made her that way.
And I cry.
The memory of her little girl innocence and me just wanting nap time to come already…
And I cry.
The image of all the missed moments, impatience, and misplaced anger I had as a first-time mother.
And the days still, relentless in their passing, imperfect in their making, asking me,
Will you do better?
Can you do better?
The years, jumbled together, somehow speeding up of their own accord, the premise of someday the empty house with the echo of memories misplaced.
And in the darkness, my tears, and the silent prayer,
Let me do better.