Sometimes between babies, and school drop off, and long nights followed by longer days…we lose ourselves. We lose ourselves in the beautiful messy process that is motherhood. We are willing to let ourselves go (mostly). We’re willing to stumble around in sweat pants, sipping luke warm coffee while we pick toys up off the floor. We are willing to give up half (85%) of our blankets for a middle of the night intruder. WE ARE WILLING because never have we ever loved like this, but sometimes, we miss ourselves, and that’s okay too.
It’s okay to look in the mirror and wonder what happened to the woman you knew.
It’s okay to miss her and to want her back.
I’ve been there.
There is an article circulating about how to talk to your daughter about her body (don’t).
I love the premise of this, and it makes a lot of great points, but there’s a big BUT for me.
There is always going to be the question in every little girl’s (and boy’s) heart, the one that says, “am I enough?” Part of that, eventually, is going to be “am I beautiful?” and “is my body okay?” We might not want that to be the case, but unfortunately in our culture, it IS the case.
My issue is this:
If I don’t answer that question, someone else will.
“I’m a good mom, like a really good mom.” I wrote those words the other day and I felt a heaviness I didn’t know was there lift off my shoulders. The words look foreign on the page. Can I say that? I wondered. Am I an imposter if I say that?
I just snapped at my son for getting slime on the couch. That doesn’t seem very goodmomish.
Then I read the words again and I owned them: I AM a good mom, like a REALLY GOOD mom. The same feeling came. RELIEF, FREEDOM, tears rose in my throat and threatened to come out.
I’m a good mom even when I snap at my son and his slime fingers.
Who even told me that I was a bad mom? I wondered.
My kids are growing up. My oldest is a preteen and my littlest is four…and suddenly they don’t need me as much anymore.
They need me, but not like they used to.
They don’t need me to rock them to sleep, or to swaddle them. They don’t need me to nurse them, or help to put on their shoes.
My kid was rude and I’m sorry.
We have four kids who are as different from each other as pad thai and meatballs. Each one of them has strengths, and each one of them has characteristics that are harder to handle. For instance one of them has a cry that is louder than a Harley Davidson revving it’s engine in my ear canal. Another one’s feet smell like they’ve been decomposing at the bottom of the garbage can for six months.
We guess we still love them anyway.