Am I a bad mom? The question that almost broke me this week
In her column, Tracy shares experiences and lessons learnt as she navigates life and grows with her two boys. To share your views email Tracy on [email protected]
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This past week, I found myself in a place that I don't think enough mothers talk about.
A place where I questioned everything: Every decision, every lesson, every conversation, every parenting choice I've made over the last seven years. And it all started with a message from my son's teacher.
The message was sent in the parent WhatsApp group and, on the surface, it seemed simple enough. Parents were encouraged to teach their children kindness and help them understand that not everybody grows up the same way. That some children have more and some have less. That compassion matters. I sat reading it and felt my stomach sink. Not because my child is perfect. Far from it.
My seven-year-old has tantrums. He can be stubborn. He argues like he's preparing for a career in law. He pushes boundaries. He tests my patience. In other words, he's a normal child.
But that message triggered something in me. Later that evening, it sparked a conversation between my husband and me. We started talking about parenting, about the boys and about whether we are getting this whole thing right.
At one point my husband reminded me that I spoil our children far more than we were spoiled growing up. And he wasn't wrong.
I wasn't given options when it came to breakfast. If there was porridge, you ate porridge. Gifts happened on birthdays and Christmas.
There wasn't a toy every time we walked into a shop. There wasn't a reward for simply existing.
Yet somehow, I found myself raising children in a completely different world. And suddenly my mind went into overdrive: Am I giving them too much? Am I making life too easy? Am I raising grateful children? Or am I accidentally creating entitled ones?
The questions wouldn't stop. I found myself lying awake replaying conversations and imagining future versions of my boys: Will they be kind? Will they be respectful? Will they understand how fortunate they are? Will they see people for who they are rather than what they have?
Then, in the middle of all that overthinking, I remembered something.
For all his faults, and believe me there are plenty because he is seven and wonderfully human. One thing I know about my son is that he understands compassion.
Not because he was born with it. Because we've spoken about it often. We tell our boys about our upbringing. We explain that not everyone has the same opportunities.
We remind them how blessed they are. We talk about gratitude. And somewhere along the way, those conversations started taking root.
There have been mornings when my son has asked me to pack an extra packet of chips because one of his friends doesn't always have snacks. There have been days when he has asked for an extra R2 because he wants to share it with a friend.
Not because anyone told him to. Not because he wanted praise. Simply because he noticed, because he cared. When I remembered those moments, I realised something: As mothers, we spend so much time focusing on our mistakes that we forget to look at the things we're getting right. We're quick to remember the times we lost our patience.
The times we shouted. The times we doubted ourselves. But we rarely stop and acknowledge the values that quietly take hold while we're busy worrying. This week, I came dangerously close to asking myself that awful question.
Am I a bad mom? But maybe that's the wrong question altogether. Maybe the better question is this: Am I trying? Am I teaching? Am I loving? Am I showing up every day and doing the best I can with what I know? The answers to all of that is yes.
And perhaps that's enough. Because at the end of the day, we're not raising perfect children. We're not even trying to be perfect parents. We're simply trying to raise good humans.
And judging by the little boy who often wants to share his chips with someone who has less than he does, maybe we're doing a little better than we think.
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