I thought I was okay with it until I actually placed the can in my shopping cart.

That is when the emotions washed over me. Guilt being the prime perpetrator.

I drive home with it sitting within a limp plastic sack in the passenger seat, and I feel hollow. He coos from the backseat, and I feel as though I’m doing him wrong.

As moms we hold ourselves so responsible to give these babes our very best. We carry these lofty ideals, along with their burdensome weight. And then, when life happens and we come up short, we hang our head in shame.

Sweet fellow Mamas—we need to stop this nonsense.

What if we were to step down from the judgment seat, and realize that all this time, we were the only ones holding us there? What if we were to finally extend a little bit of grace to ourselves? Perhaps that is the answer to offering our best to the little ones we’ve been given.

I set down the car seat, unbuckle straps, and pull him close to myself. We rock in the seat by the window. My husband is busy with a house project, but stops when he turns and takes in the sight of me cradling our boy. I tell him that I feel like a failure.

“You are not a failure.” he assures me.

“I know.” I speak it to the floor.

“No, you don’t know it, or else you wouldn’t have said that you feel like one. You are not a failure.” I thank him. I pull my son near and nurse him, giving him all that I have.

He finishes, but turns back for more. There is no more. What is a mom to feel when all she has to give is not enough? And right when I begin to feel as though I am not sufficient, I realize how true it is.

I am not enough for him.

I never will be.

Because although I would never hesitate to give my life for his, all the love I could ever offer would still never be enough to save him.

Jesus knew that. And that’s why He came—to save my boy. To save us all. To be enough, the Only one ever capable of being fully sufficient.

I tap the plastic scoop to the inside of the tin can, leveling pale yellow powder and then pouring it into the bottle. I shake it well, and then place it to his lips. He gulps fast and hard. We sit and he stares into my eyes, taking into his body for the first time something not made from me, his Mama.

I hear the telltale “shwooop, shwooop” of air being sucked from a dry bottle. I place him gently against my shoulder and pat his back. I look at him now and he smiles, talking gently to me in all his baby babble.

He’s not angry at me.

And I realize that I’m not angry at me, either.

Because I gave him my best.

Sometimes as mothers our best simply looks like choosing the best from the options we are given, and thanking Jesus that those options are there when we need them.

Sometimes our best means reminding ourselves that we are not enough, and that is exactly how it’s supposed to be. Because we were never meant to be enough. We are meant to give them all we can, and then point them straight to the only One who will ever be enough for them.