The quiet grief of realizing a moment has passed before you were ready to be done with it.
Tonight I feel like a subpar mom.
Nothing immensely horrific happened. From the outside looking in, it probably looked like a tired, threadbare mother doing her best to get her toddler to sleep. There were no raised voices. No regretful expressions. Just a weariness I couldn’t shake. An undercurrent of frustration I couldn’t quite hide. A rush to get on with it. To clock out. To move past this part.
I went through the motions. Bath, pajamas, brushing teeth, dimming lights, closing curtains, the usual wind-down songs and books. But the air between us felt off. Flatter than usual. Thinner. Like I wasn’t all the way there, even when I was sitting beside him.
Eventually, I left the room. There were no tears. Just quiet. And he, my boy who still so often needs “one more hug”, didn’t call me back.
Instead, I watched him from the baby monitor, his slow, sleepy blinks giving way to stillness. He blinked, and blinked, and then… nothing. He fell asleep without needing me again.
And I should feel proud. Or relieved. But I just felt the disappointment in myself creep in slowly, curling around my shoulders like something too familiar. I couldn’t stop watching the screen, willing him to stir. To whisper for me. To give me one more chance to get it right.
I wanted a do-over.
Just a few minutes to sit beside him on the floor, to stroke that soft, downy hair and hold his tiny, perfect hand. I wanted to tell him what I always mean to say but sometimes forget: I love you more than life. You’ll sleep so peacefully tonight. You’ll wake up tomorrow so happy. You are so deeply safe.
But he didn’t call for me. And he didn’t need me to come back. And I know that’s part of the point.
It still aches.
It’s wild, the things we grieve in motherhood. Not just the big transitions—first steps, first days, the last time they crawl or nurse or say a word the wrong way. No, sometimes the ache is quieter. It’s a Tuesday night in December when I didn’t show up the way I wanted to. And there’s no ceremony to mark that. Just the sound of a door clicking shut and the soft static of a baby monitor.
Some nights end with laughter. Others end with longing. This one gave me both.
Maybe this is one of the quiet ways motherhood changes us. We notice the moments when we weren’t as present as we wanted to be. We feel their absence after they’ve passed. And then we carry that awareness with us into the next morning.
Because even in my rush, he knew I loved him. That is a gift I want to protect. I also want to honor the ache, the missed moment, the wish to meet him differently next time.
And so I write it down. Not as punishment, but as practice. So that tomorrow, when the bath is over and the curtains are closed and his small hand reaches for mine, I might remember this night.
He didn’t call for me tonight.
But I will still be there tomorrow.
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