I missed the yearbook deadline.
Not “oops, submitted it late and hoping for grace.” I mean fully missed. When I apologized to my daughter and asked if the other house had ordered one she said “I think they were hoping you did.” Fair, I was probably hoping the same! Strong start.
I also missed my girls’ first two games of the spring soccer season because I was on a grown ups only family trip. A trip I said yes to. A trip that, at the time, felt very reasonable.
Also had a bit of a crash out when the girls were reenacting WWE in the living room, so really just nailing it across the board.
And then, of course, came the internal spiral.
I should’ve planned better.
Why do I always miss something?
Do they think I’m the “meanest mom ever?”
If you’re a parent, you know this math. The kind where no matter what you do, something doesn’t add up and somehow it’s always your fault.
I share my girls week on week off and while I hang on to every minute we’re together, sometimes too tightly, and miss them every second we’re not, this creates a ton of pressure to try to make everything perfect when we are together. Like it needs to be more intentional, more memorable, more everything. I gotta show up for the moments. I want to show up for the moments. I don’t want to miss the moments.
So when you do miss something, even if it’s objectively small, it doesn’t feel small.
And then, because we’re efficient like that, we pile on.
You didn’t just miss the yearbook deadline. You’re now the kind of parent who misses things.
You didn’t just miss two games. You’re now the kind of parent who isn’t there.
You didn’t just call out less than ideal behavior. You’re now the kind of parent who yells.
It escalates quickly.
Meanwhile, the reality is a little less dramatic.
The calendar was full. Things overlapped. You made a choice. Or you didn’t realize something was due until it wasn’t. Or you assumed you’d “circle back” and… did not circle back. Or you pumped yourself up to debut some new “patient pants” and did not.
Normal stuff.
But guilt doesn’t care about normal. Guilt is very committed to the idea that if you cared enough, you would’ve made it work.
Which is rude, because of course you care. You care so much you’re thinking about this at 11 pm while mentally reviewing your life choices.
But caring doesn’t create more time. It doesn’t prevent overlap. It doesn’t make you immune to missing things.
It just makes you feel worse when you do.
I keep catching myself trying to solve this by being better. More organized. More ahead. Less last minute. More patient. A slightly more elite version of myself.
That version of me does not exist. And if she does, she’s probably not that fun to be around.
So I’m trying something else, which is not a solution, more like an experiment in being a little less intense about it.
Like… what if missing the yearbook deadline just means I missed the yearbook deadline?
What if missing two games doesn’t erase all the other times I’ve shown up, sat on the sidelines, brought the snacks, or just been there in the boring, everyday ways that don’t get documented?
What if my kids are not, in fact, building a detailed performance review of my attendance record? Or school email and deadline mastering skills. Or keeping my cool 100% of the time.
Because when I zoom out, I don’t actually think they are.
They remember the way things feel more than the checklist of what happened. They remember being with you, not whether you nailed every single logistical moment.
And to be clear, I’m not saying this from a place of enlightenment. I still feel the guilt. I still replay it. I still have the “I should’ve done that differently” thoughts.
I just also know that if I follow that logic all the way down, the only acceptable version of parenting is one where I never miss anything, never choose myself, and somehow manage a life with zero friction.
That feels… unrealistic.
So maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate the guilt or pretend we have it all figured out. Maybe it’s just to not let it define the whole story.
You can miss a thing and still be a really present parent.
You can choose something for yourself and still be deeply invested in your kids.
You can drop a ball and not turn it into a personality trait.
I’m going to try to remember that the next time I inevitably mess something up or miss something else. Because let’s be honest, I will.
Probably soon.
In the meantime, here’s photographic evidence from our girls trip that I think they still like me… mostly.