Reading an article about difficult mothers in my latest issue of Psychology Today the other day didn’t help this deep-seated fear, let me tell you. Now I’m more paranoid than ever about my mothering abilities. I should probably dub myself the Hypochondriac of Parenting Mistakes.

I think the root of my fear resides mostly in the fact that I spent the better part of a year in a horrible depression. Even though it was something over which I had no control, I feel guilty about it to this day, and probably always will.

It started when I was pregnant with Logan, when it was all I could do to get myself out of bed in the morning, let alone take care of my then-5-year-old twins and 1-year-old son. I was a virtual zombie. I spent many days in my pajamas, not bothering to do anything with my hair or face. People kept telling me how terrible I looked. Out of necessity, my daughters learned how to make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Once I gave birth, Logan’s newborn neediness and sweet demeanor helped keep me going. He evolved into the easiest, most peaceful baby in the universe and I came out of my shell little by little, with the help of medication, therapy and my kids.

I look back at that period as one of the darkest of my life. It breaks my heart when I think about how fast my girls had to grow up and assume responsibility that they never should have had to because their mother — me — couldn’t function right or well.

Even though in my head I know I was sick and unable to just buck up and be happy, I feel regret and shame. My head knows that the extenuating personal circumstances going on in my life at the time sparked and kindled my struggle with depression, but that isn’t enough to assuage the feelings of failure, no matter how temporary my failure was.

I have days when I think I’m a pretty darn good mom, especially after being around other people’s kids (ever notice how that almost always makes a parent grateful for her own kids?). My own children tell me I’m a great mom, though I imagine the window for that sort of comment is short, considering my daughters are months away from being teenagers.

But I’m painfully aware of my shortcomings, my many flaws and the fact that no matter how hard I try, I will fail them all in one way or another. The best I can do is to try my hardest, let them know that I love them beyond measure and hope that when they grow up, any wounds I left can be healed by their knowledge that I did, indeed, do my best.

Next: How my depression affected Miss Type-A.