I couldn’t make out words, I stayed on the line. It was an interesting chance to see what goes on behind closed doors, I thought, and maybe, I admitted as I sat down on the edge of the couch, an excuse to delay my kitchen cleaning and load switching.

I heard the tones, the loud voices of what seemed to be quite a few children, and I could make out an adult voice, too. I felt my body tense as I heard the whining escalate and the volume rise significantly. I thought about hanging up, as I figured there’d possibly be a mother’s raised voice in response, and I knew that it was unfair for me to listen. It sounded like bath and dinner time, probably the most hectic and stressful part of the evening.

Still, I didn’t hang up. Instead, I held the phone to my ear, waiting for the inevitable escalation. But it didn’t come. The mother stayed calm and kind despite the chaos, and even though I couldn’t make out her words, I felt inspired and moved knowing she was most likely working hard to maintain that voice of love and patience. I sighed, wishing I could say the same of myself.

Suddenly, just as I was about to hang up, I heard a man’s voice. “Hi, Yosef,” he said clearly. He was close to the phone now, and the voice sounded so familiar. My heart stopped. Yosef? I have a son Yosef…. And that man? He sounded like… my husband!

That’s when it clicked. This voice mail wasn’t the recording of another family’s home, it was a recording of my own children. And the mother? I was hearing my own efforts and resilience in the face of everyday challenges.

I’ve always wondered what our home would look like from the outside looking in. I worry I’d see myself falling short, maybe losing patience, maybe snapping a bit too harshly at my children, or sitting too long on the couch when there are things to do, people to tend to. I worry I’d be disappointed in the mother I am, that I’d be ashamed and frustrated at my lack of transcendence.

But the voice mail we’d inadvertently left told me something I hadn’t realized before.

It told me that maybe there’s more I’d see. Perhaps I’d see a mother trying her hardest, pushing through the evening, mentally coaching herself to talk more softly, more kindly, more patiently. Maybe I’d see children who are loved and a house that’s taken care of, even if supper is fish sticks and cereal. Maybe I’d realize that whining doesn’t mean chaos or even that something’s wrong, but that all of it is a normal part of raising children and becoming who we’re meant to grow into.

They say to talk to yourself the way you’d talk to a friend. They advise you to be kind to yourself, to stop judging so harshly. But I’ve brushed that advice aside, deeming it irrelevant. Because I want more from myself. I don’t want to wrong my children, I don’t want my husband to lose out because of my patience with my own shortcomings. I don’t want to grant myself the luxury that I could easily allow a friend.

But that night I had the chance to view myself as a friend. I wouldn’t have judged that woman on the voice mail had she raised her voice or switched to a demanding tone. I’d have known she’d reached the end of her rope — because we’ve all been there. And really, those kids were cranky. But instead, she’d inspired me. And in a surprising turn of events, I’d inspired myself.

The voice mail stuck with me the rest of the night. It softened the mess in the kitchen and lightened the load as I switched it from washer to dryer. It felt good to be okay. It felt good to wallow in triumph instead of guilt.

I deleted the message that night, a soft smile on my face. There was no need to keep a garbled and fuzzy message of children being children. But it’s a message that I want to play on repeat within the chambers of judgment in my own heart.

I’ll call myself to the witness stand and I’ll show up strong and sure. And I’ll try my hardest to remember that indeed, I really never knew what goes on behind my own closed doors.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 746)