In the self-checkout, my 3-year-old son Joey insists on helping me scan our groceries. He moves in slow motion, his tiny hands fumbling with the bag of clementines, the fruit snacks, the milk. The line behind us is growing. I can feel the weight of impatient eyes, hear the exaggerated sighs.

“We have to hurry up, Joey. People are waiting,” I say, reaching for the next box he’s trying to grab.

“I can do it by myself,” he screams.

I check my frustration, taking deep breaths with a clenched jaw as we make our way through the last few items. When we finish, an older man walking past smiles at us and says, “I miss that age. All mine are grown. Enjoy every minute — goes by too fast.”

I smile, but in that moment, the last thing I feel is enjoyment. Instead, I feel like I’m failing. Like I’m missing something that other parents seem to have — some endless supply of patience, some innate sense of ease, some certainty that they were born for this role. And that I wasn’t. At least, that’s how it feels.

But not every moment is like this. There are plenty that fill me with joy, moments that remind me why this love is so deep, so all-consuming. Like when Joey grabs my face with both hands, presses his nose to mine, and whispers, “I love you, Mommy.” Or when he climbs on top of our dog, Sundae, giggling as he asks me to take a photo. When he belts out “I’m Still Standing” from “Sing,” his tiny pointer fingers stabbing the air to the beat, completely lost in the music.

And my favorite — when he asks me to rock him to sleep. We listen to the playlist I started when I was pregnant, and he fades away to the same sounds he’s heard since before he was born. These are the moments I wish I could freeze. These are the moments I feel I’m right where I belong.

One night, after a particularly rough bedtime battle, I found myself at my desk, my face buried in my hands as I choked back tears. My fingers traveled under my hair and I yanked hard, as if trying to scalp myself — peeling away a version I’m ashamed of, a version I can’t stand. I was reliving 10 minutes ago — me snapping at my restless little boy, raising my voice, frustrated he wasn’t lying down as I asked. I saw his face change, his lip moving into a pout. I heard his fragile voice tell me, “You’re making me sad.”

"Enjoy every minute — goes by too fast" can actually be a damaging phrase to hear as a parent.

His words........

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