“We have to hurry up, Joey. People are waiting,” I say, reaching for the next box he’s trying to grab.
“I can do it by myself,” he screams.
I check my frustration, taking deep breaths with a clenched jaw as we make our way through the last few items. When we finish, an older man walking past smiles at us and says, “I miss that age. All mine are grown. Enjoy every minute — goes by too fast.”
I smile, but in that moment, the last thing I feel is enjoyment. Instead, I feel like I’m failing. Like I’m missing something that other parents seem to have — some endless supply of patience, some innate sense of ease, some certainty that they were born for this role. And that I wasn’t. At least, that’s how it feels.
But not every moment is like this. There are plenty that fill me with joy, moments that remind me why this love is so deep, so all-consuming. Like when Joey grabs my face with both hands, presses his nose to mine, and whispers, “I love you, Mommy.” Or when he climbs on top of our dog, Sundae, giggling as he asks me to take a photo. When he belts out “I’m Still Standing” from “Sing,” his tiny pointer fingers stabbing the air to the beat, completely lost in the music.
