Ashamed

I am ashamed that my children don't behave as well as you think they should.  I am even more ashamed that I do not know how to make them behave that way.  Burning tears well up in my eyes when I see the way you look at me, dripping with judgement, I am not good enough.  But when I scold my child, your glare remains, I guess I did it wrong.  I hang my head and leave the room, taking my noisy, messy inconveniences with me.  I calm them down, and walk back in, but you quickly whip around and your eyes say it all, "you are not welcome here."  I am ashamed that my beautiful gifts bother you.  I am sorry for you that you have no patience for God's greatest gifts.  I am ashamed to be in the same room with you.  I am embarrassed that every Sunday one of my babies cries during church, and you twist and turn in your seat, craning your neck to see which one it is, which poor young mother can't keep her babies quiet.  We get up to leave, to make our way to the nursery, before we disturb you any more.  I look at the floor to avoid the stares, but I can feel your eyes on me, I am ashamed to have to leave the service, again.  I am sad that we are not welcome.  I am so frustrated with the whole situation.  I am ashamed that you think I am not good enough.  Tears roll slowly, silently down my face, I take a deep breath and bury my face in my baby's warm neck.  Am I good enough?  Maybe, probably not.
Did I miss it in the parenting books?  Was there a chapter, "How to make a baby not cry", "How to make a toddler sit silently"  If you are able to do that, why aren't you telling me how?  Why, instead, are you glaring at me, "shut that baby up!"  Can't you tell I'm trying?  Don't you know that I want to be a good mother?  Don't you know that I want to do everything right, and nothing wrong?  Don't you know that I try so hard every single day?  I guess you know that I have failed.  I am ashamed.