I did a few things right today.

I helped Angie practice her alphabet and showed her how to wash her own hair. I took her for a walk to the library, made watermelon ice pops and read five books before tucking her into bed.

But the one thing I did wrong today weighs more on my heart than all those good things combined.

I yelled at my daughter. She refused to get dressed (for the fourth day in a row), and I shouted in my meanest, loudest voice. Then I left her alone in her room to cry.

Not long after the big blowup, Angie and I made amends and we shared an ice pop as a peace offering. Now she’s asleep and I’m replaying it all in my head, persecuting myself over and over.

Truth is, I’m mad at myself. Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I have dreamed of being the quintessential mother, the kind who knows just what to say and do in any situation. I have tried to be calm, compassionate and considerate of my daughter’s feelings. I have aspired to be creative, supportive and positively tireless.

I have tried to be perfect, thinking that if my daughter can’t have two parents who are with her every day, then she should at least have one who is really awesome.

But I lose my temper. I want my morning coffee before I want to play Harry Potter, and I’m so tired of reading that National Geographic book about sharks that I’ve shoved it behind the bookshelf.

I let Angie bend the rules, sometimes because it’s fun and other times because I’m too exhausted to resist. When she whines about wearing her glasses, I let her take them off for the day. When my column is due and homework is piling up, she gets a bowl of cheese puffs and Ice Age 3 on pay-per-view.

Some days that’s the best I can do.

When Angie was born, one of my uncles had a good laugh over how little I knew about motherhood. I couldn’t figure out when to feed her, change her or put her to bed. She was a mystery to me.

Now, almost five years later, I’m still trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing, and the issues of parenting are only getting more complicated. I don’t always know the right thing to say when Angie asks why I don’t remarry Daddy. And I’m not sure how to handle the mornings when she refuses to get dressed, when my frustration turns to anger — which too often results in yelling and hurt feelings.

I hate to say this, but when it comes to motherhood, I am just winging it. Some days it all works out, and some days it doesn’t.

When it’s late at night and Angie is asleep, I lie awake wondering how little I got right that day. Did she get plenty of exercise? Did she eat enough fruits and vegetables? Did I hug her enough? Did I hug her at all?

Then I see her face in the glow of the night light and she looks so serene, and everything I did wrong that day, everything she did wrong, just melts away. In that moment, being perfect doesn’t matter.

What matters is loving my child. Learning from my mistakes. Doing my best, even when my best doesn’t seem good enough. Keeping my chin up and knowing that motherhood is something to be practiced, not perfected.

I can’t be both parents. I can only be me. And I need to give myself permission to be imperfect and learn how to forgive myself when I screw up.

Besides, Angie doesn’t need me to be perfect; she needs me to be present. I love her, and whether I get everything right or get everything wrong, she loves me back just the same.

So when my sleeping child wakes, it will be a new day. It will be a chance for me to try again. And I will try again — because what I lack in perfection, I make up for in perseverance.

Wendy Fontaine’s “Party of Two” column appears the first and third Sundays of the month. Her e-mail address is: party2fontaine@gmail.com. Follow Party of Two on Facebook and read her blog at PerseveringParents.com.

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