I Love My Kids. I’m Also Sick of Parenting.

That afternoon, my younger one dumped the blocks all over the floor, the older one was crying, and I was on my third round of picking things up when I suddenly stood, walked into the bathroom, and locked the door.

The banging outside sounded like a drumbeat. I sat on the closed toilet lid and scrolled on my phone. I saw a picture: three girls in pajamas, seen from behind, at three different heights. The caption was one line: “I love them very much, especially when I know they’re going to bed.”

I laughed out loud. Then the banging got louder.

I put my phone in my pocket and opened the door. My younger one looked up at me, a bubble of snot at his nose. I squatted down to wipe his face. He threw his arms around my neck and pressed his wet face against my chin. On the coffee table was the half glass of milk he hadn’t finished that morning, a ring of dried milk around the rim.

That’s parenting. You’re so annoyed you want to disappear for five minutes, and then he wraps his arms around your neck and pulls you back. It’s not about forgiving him. There’s no time to keep score.

I love my kids. I don’t need to say it. You can see it when I squat down to wipe his face. But I also get sick of it. When I’m sick of it, I’m sick of it. Sick enough to pretend I didn’t hear, and sick enough to want to sweep every block into the trash. Those two minutes in the bathroom scrolling on my phone are the only time all day no one is calling “Mom.”

I have yelled at my kids. Once my older one knocked a whole bowl of soup onto the floor. I yelled, and he froze for two seconds, then turned, pulled a tissue from the coffee table, and handed it to me. “Mom, wipe.”

I squatted down, took the tissue, and wiped the floor. Only after I finished did I say, “Mom was too loud just now. I’m sorry.” He said, “It’s okay.” Then he squatted down and helped me wipe. He was slow, and he smeared the soup wider. I didn’t say anything.

That night I lay in bed thinking, Am I a bad mom? I thought about it for a while. Then the younger one rolled over and kicked me in the waist. I moved his leg away and fell asleep. The next morning I got up, made breakfast, and took them to school. The bad-mom thought only shows up in the middle of the night. By morning it’s gone.

Being a parent doesn’t require a test or a license. There’s no standard answer. Most of the standards are locks we put on ourselves. Are the toys on the floor worth damaging the relationship? No. So leave them, or pick them up together. I learned one thing: if I really don’t want to parent today, get someone to take over. When my kids were little, I hired someone to make dinner. I was trying to survive, not be fancy. You eat, someone watches the kids for a while, and your mood doesn’t keep sliding down. Before you love your kids, feed yourself. Otherwise you love and love until you have nothing left.

I also don’t want to be tied down by the label “good mom.” Once you’re tied down, you have to meet other people’s eyes. But my kids know I didn’t take care of everything in fine detail, and because of that they learned to do more themselves. He puts on his own shoes, even if he gets left and right mixed up. He pours his own water, spills half on the table, and wipes it up himself. Am I a good mom or not? I don’t care about the answer.

I’d rather be the mom who is here. A mom who loves her kids, and who is also rushed and tired. My kids and I are like partners. They can see what’s good about me, and they can see where I fall short. That’s honest enough.

Bree in Desperate Housewives was excellent. Always dressed well, always smiling, recipes measured to the gram, forks at a 45-degree angle. But kids don’t want to be managed. They want to be loved. Lynette, on the other hand, was always racing around, so tired she could fall asleep sitting on the floor, and her kids still loved her. Because she loved them, and she wasn’t made of iron. She got tired.

When my kids were little, the sentence I said most often was, “It’s so good to have you. Thank you, son.” He handed me the remote, thank you. He carried his bowl to the kitchen, it’s so good to have you. Kids want to be depended on. If they help and you give them a quick, positive response, they’ll help again. Slowly, responsibility grows.

Kids crying, clinging, needing things nonstop, that’s what childhood is. Every kid is different. Some are angel babies. Some are little devils. But they’re all your kids. When a child’s emotions boil over, don’t get angry with them, and don’t hide and let them cry alone. Find out why they fell apart. Stay with them patiently, guide the emotion, and talk about it after they calm down. You also need your own rules. Don’t give in just because they make a fuss. After they test it a few times and learn where your boundary is, they won’t keep pushing. A lot of relationships are worked out through friction. Friction hurts. It is awkward and slow. But if you’re too lazy to work it out and let the child run the relationship, then what you say won’t count.

If one day you do yell at your kid, don’t nail yourself to a post. When you’re calm, squat down and say, “Mom was too tired just now. I didn’t handle my emotions well. It’s not that I don’t love you.” Kids don’t need a mom who never makes mistakes. They need a mom who comes back to repair. Coming back is the part they remember.

Now both my kids are over ten. The endless crying and nonstop needs are in the past. On weekends they arrange their own time. They finish homework, help a little with chores, and turn on the TV. I sit nearby with the remote in my hand, not changing the channel. I don’t notice what’s on. I just hear them arguing over who picks the program first. After a while, the older one says, “You pick first. Next time it’s my turn.” The younger one picks a cartoon. The older one doesn’t say anything and watches with him.

I get up and go to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I come back, the younger one shifts over and makes room for me.

I sit down. The remote is on the coffee table. No one reaches for it.