You rise with the sun; your coffee stays hot.
Your people wake up right when they ought.
You impress at the table with a breakfast souffle.
Sure, it’s a Monday, but it’s a Super Mom day.
The laundry gets laundered. The counters, they shine.
The children are angels and not angry swine.
Your voice remains calm as they smile and obey.
You’ve got it together; it’s a Super Mom day.
You all go to Target, singing songs on the drive.
In the store, they hold hands, casually counting by fives.
You buy what’s on your list; nothing leads you astray.
Not even chevron can stop you on a Super Mom day.
You have lunch in the grass; the baby naps nearby.
The others sleep soon after, and you make a pie.
Then you all walk together, gathering a wildflower bouquet.
You’re killing it on this Super Mom day.
Dinner is made before 5 o’clock,
And everyone eats it with zero back-talk.
Your husband cleans up while you drink cabernet.
You could get used to a Super Mom day.
That night in the dark, you remember the hours:
The singing, the wine, the attitudes, the flowers.
Is it always supposed to feel this way?
You wonder at the end of Super Mom day.
The next morning arrives like it’s in a blood feud
As you wake with a scowl and feel like a shrew.
The coffee tastes bitter, the kids are a cliche.
Dang it, this is not a Super Mom day.
You try and be patient as the milk hits the floor,
But it’s barely 8am and you can’t take anymore.
You drink your nasty coffee and you wish for sick pay,
But the hits keep on coming when it’s not Super Mom day.
It’s loud and annoying, your kids and your voice.
You realize that this life leaves you little choice
To do what you want, to feel like you’re okay.
You hate it when you’re not a Super Mom each day.
That night in bed, the darkness weighs heavy.
Or maybe it’s the pizza you picked up in your Chevy.
You cry in the silence, wishing the guilt would go away.
Why is it so hard to be Super Mom every day?
But, friend, here’s the truth we so quickly forget:
Motherhood is a game of emotional roulette.
Sometimes it feels wonky, but we choose to stay.
At your worst, it’s still a Super Mom day.
So don’t measure your worth by the lists in your head,
By your children’s behavior or if you know how to make bread.
We’re all doing our best, and we fail more than we say.
Friend, you’re a Super Mom for doing it day after day.
This article originally appeared The Lazy Genius Collective.