Motherhood is...

It’s tempting to get existential when you sit down and ponder motherhood. You created a life that is all the best parts of you and quite simply put; life is a miracle. I’d like to take a moment and bring us all back down to reality and describe the real essence of this experience in some simple sentences that help to sum it all up.

Motherhood is walking the line daily between nervous breakdown and best day of your life.

Motherhood is none of the glory of throwing things on the floor, but all of the manual labor of cleaning it up.

Motherhood is exactly like an episode of "Caillou", except not at all.

Motherhood begins each morning with the peaceful Canadian approach and by 7pm you have moved onto a nonsensical Twitter Trump rant.

Motherhood is stopping to standup midstream while your toddler opens the door and exposes you to the entire line at Starbucks.

Motherhood is boycotting laundry only to discover with your children naked most of the time you are the only party negatively affected by the strike.

Motherhood is 10% buying practical toddler shoes and 90% trying to locate said shoes only to recognize that they no longer fit.

Motherhood is having poison control, pizza delivery and your therapist on speed dial.

Motherhood is simply wonderful.

There is no other experience on Earth quite like being a mother. It is different with every child, every day and every breath. That sounds completely overwhelming because it is just that. But the good news, however, is that if you are ever looking for answers in parenthood, your children will always carry the answers.

Great Expectations

In an attempt to receive Over-Achiever Mom of the Year, I made sure to take Charlotte to swim class, library time, and playgroups all before she could even support her own neck. Madeleine on the other hand, has had to adjust to a one-nap-a-day schedule starting at 9 months old because two naps wasn’t convenient for Charlotte’s busy social calendar. Naturally I hold a certain amount of guilt about Madeleine getting the second-born shaft. Imagine my excitement when Charlotte began attending preschool 3 mornings a week which freed up some quality Mom & Maddie bonding time. I quickly signed us up for gymnastics and Music Together. I was saving Music Together for only one child because if both of my kids were to attend, we would have to forgo their college education to cover the cost (however since my girls will either be getting a women's engineering or athletic scholarship we should be covered regardless). Plus as a backup plan, Bernie will be president by then, so college will be free and we can finally buy that four person tandem bicycle we’ve had our eye on that is a family requirement here in Davis.

My expectations of Music Together were the following: Madeleine on my lap with a tambourine in one hand with my hand in the other as we swayed to the music, while I resolved my mommy-guilt and I watched as the neuron’s in her little brain fired as she became a more well-rounded individual. So super healthy and not at all unrealistic. It couldn’t have gone any worse than if Madeleine had taken that tambourine from my fantasy and smacked me in the face with it. I actually may have preferred that to the 40 minutes we spent thrashing on the floor and her sobbing in the lobby like I did the day Trump got elected. Not only was she terrified of the room we were in, but she hated everything about the other kids-- from the instruments in their hands to the clothes they were wearing.

Didn’t my not yet two-year-old understand that I was doing this for her? This was supposed to be our special time and she was ruining it by not appreciating it because she is not yet two. This is the age-old truth where you buy your child the fanciest most expensive toy in the store and they play with the box. Except what I finally realized was she doesn’t want the toy, the box or anything else-- she only wants me. It isn’t about the things we do, it is about our quality time together. Madeleine is perfectly content to play the drums on my mom-belly for 20 minutes and all that costs is a momentary blow to self-esteem, which is worth it just to watch her giggle.

What's Hard to Swallow

One thing I don’t enjoy is getting advice about my girls, especially on an already sensitive topic. You better believe I am not reading the magazine at the doctor’s office featuring a 22-year-old model without stretch marks holding what is obviously not her baby next to the headline, “How to get your child to stop whining in 3 easy steps”.

The millennial in me is not open to suggestions, especially as it pertains to what I consider to be my most glorious achievements: my daughters. I would rather stand naked in the middle of the street than say, “I need help understanding my kids!” I’m the expert because I know when they are outside shrieking like elephants they have come into contact with a bee, or a fly, or a spider which they also call a “bee”. Turns out I am not an expert in knowing how to get Charlotte to pick up food and place it in her mouth, chew and then swallow. Whether it be a vegetable or quinoa, I was bribing her, pleading and losing the daily war on food.

My husband arrived home one night last week to me ugly crying while chopping bok choy. He assumed, based on my theatrics, that I had severed a finger, so imagine his confusion when I told him that with the help of my sister, I had sought counsel with a nutritionist. My husband, having been on this carousel with me for quite a while responded with, “Is this one of those times that you want me to problem solve or do you just need me to nod and agree with you?” Sigh, love him.

I allowed myself just that night to grieve the end of the era of me knowing everything and I woke up in the morning full of hope that no matter what the day looked like we were going to do what was suggested. That day was a lot like Britney’s 2007 performance on the VMAs the year she shaved her head: too much unnecessary nudity, a lot of mis-steps and over all just a hot mess. But we got through it (as did Britney) and every day since, we have continued to have success at the table.

Madeleine enjoying her lunch of spinach and broccoli.

The crux of it is, is that somebody else knew better than I did how to help my kids with nutrition. And me accepting her help doesn’t make me any less of a mother, but it does make me a better one. They say it takes a village to raise a child and sometimes, for us moms, that can be hard to swallow.