Oh my god, what if you’re right?
What if my best isn’t good enough? And these three little miracles I brought into this world deserve a mom who doesn’t have to try so hard to get it right.
What if every boo-boo, every tear, every tantrum has been my fault?
Perhaps you just confirmed every suspicion I’ve ever had about myself and my ability to raise my children.
But, I have to wonder, what if you’re wrong?
A bold claim, I know. Based on your certainty when claiming I shouldn’t be a mom, I doubt in any world you think you could be wrong but hear me out for a minute, girlfriend.
Every night for months and months on end I woke up with my newborns babies, fed them, changed them, held them, sang to them and soothed them until they needed me again just a few hours later. Some nights, they needed me so often that crying along with them was the only way to cope. And, guess what, those sleepless nights aren’t over just because my babies aren’t teeny tiny any more. To this day, I still wake up nearly every night with my children. From bad dreams to lost blankets to “Mommy, I can’t sleep,” these kids need me day and night. And, on the occasional night that everyone sleeps through the night, I don’t. My mind races with the type of anxiety that only motherhood can induce. Any mother can attest that it’s utterly exhausting.
Every day I drop my heart and soul off at daycare or school before heading into the office where I give what little energy I have left. I knew being a working mother would be trying but I didn’t expect to feel like I was having my heart ripped out every single day when I left them to pursue my career. I didn’t expect to feel so utterly selfish for loving the daily challenge that my job provides. I didn’t expect to be constantly torn between my maternal instincts and professional ambitions. Every dollar I’ve made has been dedicated to daycare, clothes, food, family vacations, college saving funds—anything and everything to ensure their childhood sets them up for success in adulthood.
Every evening at 8:00pm I tuck my babies into bed, read them books, sing them songs, lead them in prayer and snuggle them close. I don’t do this for fun, honey. There are a million other things I would rather be doing, you know like cleaning the kitchen, folding the laundry, washing the floor and perhaps showering. But those things can wait. They have to wait, because at bedtime my kids need me. They need me to reassure them that there aren’t monsters under the bed, that the boogieman doesn’t come out at night and that I’m just down the hall if they need me. And, trust me, they always need me.
Every year for every birthday (and half birthday, I might add), I’ve made each of my children custom homemade birthday cakes. Yes, they typically look like they will collapse at any moment but forgive me, I dropped out of Culinary School to pursue my Masters Degree in business. Did I forget to tell you that I have an advanced degree, which I started the week I got pregnant with my first son and finished the week before I gave birth to my second son? It’s true, but I don’t like to brag. Scratch that, you need to hear this.
Every minute of their sweet two, five and seven years on this earth I have spent worrying about them, praying for them, and loving on them. I have given up my body, my freedom and my mental sanity for these children. And, while I chose this path, that doesn’t make it easy. Rewarding as fuck, yes, but not easy. Every trip to the ER, every first day of school, every doctor’s appointment, every lost tooth, I’ve been there. I’ve gladly been by my children’s side through the joys and the sorrows because as a mom, their joys are my joys and their sorrows are my sorrows.
Gosh, maybe I shouldn’t be a mom. It’s really fucking hard.
But here I am, kind of stuck with it, kind of rocking it, kind of failing at it, kind of loving it and, honestly, kind of sick of you trolling on it.
So, Facebook troll who doesn’t know me from Adam but still doesn’t think I should be a mom, I don’t think you should be a Facebook troll. It’s not a good look on you.