Mama Said

It was a long week. Still recovering from last weeks’ mysterious stomach bug that struck Josh and I both down, Henners had developed a cough, runny nose, new budding tooth and was sleeping even less than usual. The house was a wreck, we were on our second night of pizza for dinner, and after fighting through the normally calm bedtime routine for an hour, baby was finally asleep and I stumbled into the living room to try and fit in a few minutes of adult time. Half asleep on the couch, he motioned for me to come lay with him. As I was attempting to get comfortable, I tweaked an already tired back and in complete surrender, I exhaustedly flopped the working half of my body across Josh’s, and laid my head on his chest, feet dangling on the wooden floor. For 2.5 whole glorious minutes we just sat, and mumbled to each other about maybe trying to start a movie, when I heard a weird rustling coming from somewhere in our house. Alarmed, I sat up. “Did you hear that? Was that you?” Rustle. Rustle. “What in the living shit is that? Seriously. Where is it coming from??” Rustle. Very cautiously, I peeked my head into the hallway, only to be greeted by Henners, wide awake and dragging an empty Target bag by his ankle.  I don’t even know where he got the bag, or when he got out of bed, or why he was so silently stalking his way into the living room. OR why he was AWAKE. AGAIN. 

There are moments like this when I want to pull out every piece of my hair individually, just to keep from placing my child INSIDE said shopping bag and trying to return him in exchange for store credit. Moments when my energy is beyond used up and I would do just about anything for a hot bath, some tea (or whiskey, whatever) and an uninterrupted hour of nothingness. In these moments, I have to be honest with myself. I have to admit the frustration and the guilt that comes along with being so agitated at my tiny human who doesn’t know any better. He does not get that I am frustrated or why because he doesn’t even understand that, no, you cannot eat rocks. This is the life of a mother, and it is a glorious one. 

As a mom to a now walking, babbling one-year-old, I still feel so new. I mean, I am new. Every time I feel like I have finally figured something out, there’s a new challenge (Oh. You learned how to put things in the toilet—that’s cool). There are often moments when I feel completely confident, but then again, not really at all. I am so solid in the love that I have for my son, and that what I do is out of love, but I have learned (and continue to learn…daily) to relax just a little bit more and go with the flow. There will be victories and tears and cheerios stuck to the wall but always, always love.

With that being said, with learning comes lessons and with lessons come, I don’t know, values. One thing I know for sure is that you have to get over the fear of being judged. I thought this to myself the other day when I just wanted to poop alone. Seriously, come on kid. I had heard horror stories of never being able to use the restroom by yourself anymore once your baby can walk, but I scoffed. And then I was like. Oh. That myth is especially true. Neat. Wanting to just sit in the blissful silence of my bathroom, with the fan whirring turned into Henners screaming absolute-end-of-the-world bloody murder because I was trying to stop him from shoving handfuls of toilet paper in his mouth/up his nose/, wondering if the neighbor upstairs was hearing this exchange and thinking I might possibly be physically abusing my child.

You can’t worry about being judged when you’re in a store and your child starts to cry and you already look you were in a bar fight and your pants are falling down and your bangs look like a bad episode of Married With Children. You just can’t. You have to breathe. You look that judge-y cashier in the eye and smile, and bounce your child on your hip and dare them to judge you for buying only cookie dough, ice cream and Tylenol. 

You can never child proof your house enough, either. You. Can. Not. Possibly. Everything is a toy, every speck of dust is a tasty treat and any item that can be used as a weapon will be found and used to run through the house with; the only purpose being to cause mothers everywhere to have horrific visions of eye loss as you are chasing after them to retrieve said item. I always imagine explaining to the surgeon that no, I swear I picked up the Capri Sun straw from under the couch. It happened in a split second. And now he’ll have to start kindergarten with an eye patch. Awesome. 

You learn to swallow your pride as a mom. You are not perfect, and that is okay. 

It is so incredible to be proud of your child as well, as he learns to dress himself. It is also okay to cry a little internally when you realize that it is a pair of your giant underwear he’s now wearing as a sash. It is okay.

It is so amazing to be proud that your finicky eater has finally eaten an entire turkey hotdog and apple, only to discover that he has, in fact, shoved the entire contents of both into his diaper. It is okay. 

It is okay to panic when your son sneakily licks leftover ketchup off a plate, and comes running to you, dripping in what appears to be massive amounts of blood and you scream and start to dial 911. And then you smell tomatoes. It is okay. 

It is okay to spend an hour putting him to bed and in sneaking away, trip over your own feet and wake him with the sound of your own head making contact with the wall. It is okay.

It is okay to be sad sometimes, feel defeated, feel elated, be crabby, be crazy or just not know the answers. To all the mothers out there, I love you so deeply, no matter what choices you make. I am blessed with a diverse group of mothers in my life who constantly reassure me and lift me up. I am thrilled to know so many women who are no-holds-barred and open and honest about the struggles and joys of being a mom. I am glad we can laugh together. I am glad that together, we do not judge me for eating a donut (what?). 

Happy Mother’s Day in advance to so many beautiful, unique, wonderful, brave moms. You are all glamorous and sexy even when you don’t feel like it. I hope you get to poop alone on your special day. 

Keeping it real as always, until next time.

-Becca