The Mom I Thought I'd Be vs. The Mom I That Am

By Crystal Virgin

"The fact that it's hard — the fact that I have to choose it — doesn't mean I'm failing. It means I'm doing the work."

Before I had children, I had theories.

A lot of them, actually. I was going to be the mom who let her kids help in the kitchen — flour on the counter, little hands stirring batter, that kind of thing. I was going to do crafts. I was going to be organized and structured, with a rhythm to our days that felt intentional and calm. I was going to know how to discipline with patience and set boundaries without losing my temper. I had a very clear picture of the mother I was going to be.

Then I had children.

And somewhere between the sleep deprivation and the toddler tantrums and the reality of two small people needing things from me every single minute of every single day, I forgot every theory I had ever had. All of it. Gone.

The Honest Truth

Here is something I don't say out loud very often: I have to choose, every single day, to want to be around my kids.

That sounds worse than I mean it. I love my daughters with everything I have. But my first reaction — my default, unguarded, unintentional reaction — is often annoyance. Impatience. The slow build of frustration that I have to actively talk myself down from before it runs away with me.

Saying good morning kindly. Smiling when they come find me. Letting them help with something even when it would be faster and easier to do it myself. These are things I have to be intentional about. Things I have to choose. They do not come naturally, and the mental effort of choosing them, hour after hour, day after day, is genuinely exhausting.

That is not the mom I pictured. Not even close.

And if I'm being completely honest, I still carry shame about the gap between who I thought I'd be and who I actually am. I'm not sure that fully goes away. But I'm learning to hold it differently.

What I've Started to Understand

I've been thinking lately about what it actually means to be a good mother. Not the Pinterest version or the theory version — the real one.

And here's what I keep coming back to: I spend approximately 90% of my waking hours thinking about my kids.

Not just thinking about them — thinking about how to be better for them. Replaying the hard moments. Asking myself what I could have done differently. Wondering how my choices today will shape who they become. Reading, praying, reflecting, trying. I am never not thinking about how to be a better mother to my daughters.

That is not what a woman who doesn't care looks like.

The mom who doesn't care isn't up at night replaying the afternoon. She isn't asking hard questions about her own patterns and where they come from. She isn't choosing, deliberately and repeatedly, to smile and use kind words even when everything in her wants to react differently.

The fact that it's hard — the fact that I have to choose it — doesn't mean I'm failing. It means I'm doing the work.

What God Sees That I Can't

I think about this in terms of my faith, because everything eventually comes back there for me.

God does not see us only in our worst moments. He sees the full picture — the intentions underneath the impatience, the love underneath the frustration, the woman who is trying even when trying looks messy from the outside.

Elder Dale G. Renlund taught that placing our discipleship of the Savior above all else is what changes us from the inside out. Not perfection. Not having it all together. Just turning toward Him, consistently, and letting that orientation shape who we become over time.

I am not the mom I pictured. But I am a mom who keeps turning back. Who kicks herself at the end of a hard hour and then tries again at the start of the next one. Who prays for her children, thinks about her children, chooses her children — every single day, even when it's hard.

I think that counts for more than I give myself credit for.

The Kitchen Moments Still Happen

I want to end with something true: the mom I thought I'd be does show up sometimes.

Not as often as I'd like. Not as perfectly as I imagined. But there are afternoons in the kitchen with flour on the counter and little hands in the mixing bowl. There are craft projects that go sideways and end in laughter anyway. There are good mornings said kindly, boundaries held calmly, bedtime prayers that feel like something real.

They're not every day. But they're there.

And maybe that's the thing about the gap between who we thought we'd be and who we actually are — it's not a fixed distance. It closes, little by little, every time we choose to try again.

That's all any of us can do. And I'm starting to believe it's enough.