You Made Me

When I was a kid, I believed my parents loved my older sister, their first born, more than me. While now I recognize this was a false, childish assumption, what I know to be true, is the first born opens the doorway into a place in our heart that never before existed. 

This makes them special. 

Not more special, but unique in a way that cannot be replicated. Sequential children, while monumental in their own right, knock down walls and expand what we once believed was a restricted space. And we know now is infinite. 

But the first child holds the key.

Last week, my oldest turned 6. And the night before her birthday, I decided to perform my own emotional-torture-ritual by nursing my 1-year-old to sleep, while looking back at pictures from the day my oldest was born, all while watching the latest episode of This is Us that delves into Kate and her mother’s relationship. 

I know. 

I’m a sucker for a good cry. 

It got me thinking about the memories I keep of my children. And how some are only mine, because you were too small to know, but now we may share them together from these years forward.

So let me tell you this, Charlotte.  

I remember the big stuff: your birth, your goofy grins, watching all our family members look into your newness in wonder and I could let out a deep exhale, knowing if the worst happened to me, you are always safe. Their faces told me everything I needed to know about the security of your future.

What I didn’t know to remember was the last time your tiny baby cry took on a deeper tone, and stopped making my whole-body tingle. When did you stop needing me to hold your hand down every step? Or the last time I let go of the guilt, because you didn’t sob when I left you at school. Funny how these little things don’t stick, but when we are in them, that’s all there is.

You continue to grow and we all grow around you. It feels similar to when you’d toddle about, just gaining your footing, refusing my hand; needing my hand. I missed the mark so many times. Our darkest days together, were supposed to be filled with light. But you showed me the grit I’m capable of. Before you, I never gave myself enough credit. 

And now you are 6. I love the little woman you are becoming and the one you are with your sisters. I love the person you gifted me within myself, without you, I wouldn’t be this. You are my first baby and while I may have made you, the way I see it, you made me.

An Honest Valentine’s Message

It’s 2 in the morning,

I’m stuffing cards for their class.

How does every holiday

Become a pain in my ass?

The note from the school read:

“No sugar, nuts, dairy--and of course gluten-free

We don’t need to remind you,

About childhood obesity.”

Heart “cookies” for the girls

And little Legos for the dudes.

“Treats” should be baked

(Or) At the very least from Whole Foods.

Homemade cards that glitter,

Each topped with a feather.

It’s really just a contest,

To pretend we have our sh*t together.               

The goodies are completed

With cards they "helped" make.

I’m waiting for their exit,

Before I stuff my face with cake.

Today brings messages from the heart 

To a crush or love interest.

Not a way to out “Stepford” each other,

From unobtainable goals on Pinterest. 

As we are drowning in sugar,

And pulling cards off the shelf,

Remember today is about love

Above everything else!

Love, Mom

---

The Unwinnable Box

From the moment we become moms we are immediately held to an unwinnable standard. We expect moms to do it all and then we criticize them when they do. Moms should be fit and fashionable, but then how could they, they have children! Moms can be frumpy and out of shape, because they are moms, but then what kind of example are you setting for your kids? Sexy? Of course! But, never in public. Here, go in this box where you can never win.

Ok, so I’ll give you an example: the Superbowl halftime show. Shakira and Jennifer Lopez are both mothers and as mothers they were either applauded for their efforts or they were scorned.

My take on the halftime show as it relates to them as parents; JLo and Shakira went out and put on an entertaining performance. As women of any age, their athletic ability, sexual magnetism, coordination, and showmanship is to be applauded. The fact that they are parents has me even more in awe of their abilities, while I’m not a performer, I too am the wearer of all the hats and the struggle of juggling is very real.

If you find yourself disapproving of their performance, worrying about what message it is sending children--how about you send your kids the message you want them to hear, by engaging in a conversation about what they saw? I have three daughters, I asked them what they thought of the show. They said, “Sparkly, fun, and exciting.” I asked them if they had any questions about it. They asked me for a popsicle.

If someone is choosing to be offended by their performance, then we should also assume they found Adam Levine’s shirtless performance last year equally distasteful, after all, he too is a parent. Or even more troubling still, the dangers for football players, many of them Dads--increasing their likelihood of Alzheimer’s and Traumatic Brain Injury, all the while young boys are idolizing their every move.  

But these men are just doing their job.

Shakira and Jennifer Lopez, were also just doing their job. You are welcome to your opinion, but shouldn’t it be consistent across both sexes?

That brings me back to my original catch-22. Jennifer Lopez and Shakira are both talented artists who are also moms. They were applauded for being moms “of a certain age” capable of sex appeal and then they were criticized for it. JLo was celebrated for having her daughter sing with her up on stage and she was chastised for it.

This catch-22 of motherhood is exhausting. I am not asking you to agree with me about any of my points. I’m simply asking you to reexamine your role in it all. I personally don’t enjoy being placed in an unwinnable box and I won’t put other mothers in there either—I’m much too busy being in awe, of all we are capable of.