Dear Children (the things I hold most dear to my heart, even when it’s broken),
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the things I can’t be for you. I’m sorry no matter what I do it isn’t good enough. I’m sorry the football team your father signed you up for is no good, but I spend 3 hours a week driving you 20 minutes to practice and sitting there watching you every practice. I’m sorry your games are not fun, but I make you go and sit there watching your every move. I’m sorry that I have a missed a few (as in maybe 10 in 10 years) games or activities because I sometimes need a life of my own.
I’m sorry the house I work my butt off to provide for you isn’t good enough. I’m sorry that even though it is full of Nerf guns, countless footballs, arts and crafts, toy cars, and huge playground, bikes, scooters, sidewalk chalk, and anything else you could ever want or need, that there is “nothing to do” and you would rather go to your friends’ houses because it’s more cool.
I’m sorry I had a knee problem growing up that you, my beautiful daughter, inherited. I’m sorry I can’t take away the pain for you. I’m sorry the medication for it caused painful stomach problems. I’m most sorry you probably inherited my bipolar. I really wish I could take that from you. I’m sorry I let you roller skate one time without your wrist guards, causing a broken wrist that still causes you problems four years later. I’d do that over again, too, if I could.
I’m sorry I ask you to put down your electronics to come to dinner, help clean, or just spend time as a family. I’m sorry I can’t give you the best and latest of everything because all the money I do have goes into providing what you need. I’m sorry kids pick on you because you don’t have name brand shoes or clothes.
I’m sorry kids pick on your for your freckles, but I can’t do anything about that. I’m sorry you get picked on for wearing “girl clothes” as a boy because you love sparkles, pink, purple, flowers, and everything else deemed to be girly by your rude friends. I can’t do much about that either, except tell you that you are the best looking young man I know, freckles included. And that I love you because you love all those things that the other kids deem uncool. It is my greatest pleasure to see your huge smile when you pick out a glittery shirt, or your latest fashion, yellow and pink flip flops because they are pretty and make your feet feel good.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stand living in a loveless marriage anymore so that you could have the life I so wanted you to have. I’m sorry I decided I didn’t want you guys having the same marriage, and that I couldn’t get your father to go to counseling to fix it with me. I’m sorry you have to live in two houses.
I’m sorry I don’t remember where you left your medicine that you didn’t take care of. I’m sorry I can’t keep track of everything. I’m sorry I’m not a gourmet chef, and taking care of household chores is not my strong point.
I’m sorry I need to take naps on weekends. I’m sorry I cannot regulate my sleep schedule due having bipolar, no matter what medications I take. I’m not sorry for sparing you the details of everything I went through many years ago to treat it to make sure I was the best mom I could be for you. I’m not sorry for not even telling you until you figure it out on your own.
I’m sorry I cannot be everything I thought I would be as a mother. If I could change it, I would, but I can’t. I try so hard, but I’m only human.
And, finally, I’m sorry for not being able to take all your criticism and blame anymore and breaking down and crying. Especially on Mother’s Day. I know you love me, but most of the time I just don’t feel it. I’m sorry I’m not stronger so that I could tolerate it more. I hope some day you’ll forgive me, and understand that I truly love you more than anything I could ever express, even if I can’t be perfect.
Mom (the one who is proud of you in ways you will only understand once you have children)