Imperfect Model

by Kerri Ames

(The following was written and performed by Kerri for the recent Listen to your Mother Boston show. It is republished here with Kerri’s permission. You can – and should – read more on her blog (Un)Diagnosed and Still Okay.)

Photo credit: Amy/Emily Photography

Photo credit: Amy/Emily Photography

I used to pity parents whose child had a disability. I would see them in a restaurant, a movie theater or other public outing and think to myself: “Thank God that is not my child”.

I used to say the word, retard. A lot. As in “I’m so retAHded”, “stop being retahded”, the list goes on.

I would think to myself, God how awful for them. The parent’s whose child was in a wheelchair, had a feeding tube or a breathing tube. Wondering what made them decide to let the child live.

I would see a child having a temper tantrum in the grocery store and whisper to my husband, why don’t they just smack that kid.

I had my first, perfect child and became the paragon of how to be a working mother. I knew the answers to putting the baby to sleep at exactly 7pm. I let her cry it out and slept through the night. I had a schedule. I was that model working mom. The one you read about in magazines. The one who “does it all”, showers daily and who kept a clean house. Abby was well behaved, well-traveled and the child you could take to any event.  I could leave her with anyone for any amount of time. The girl, who sat quietly in restaurants, did her school work and reinforced my thoughts that “those other” children were just a result of poor parenting.

Five years later, my second daughter was born.

At just four days old I found myself in the NICU as I begged the doctors to do anything to save her life. I didn’t question brain function. I didn’t wonder if we were taking extreme measures. I saw my baby and feared she wouldn’t come home.

I bargained with God.

I offered my soul. I told him I could handle a retarded child. Just please, God, let my child live.

We came home with a beautiful little girl. One who vomited every 20 minutes, one who would only sleep if she was snuggled on your chest and who cried. A lot. If she was awake, she was crying, unless she was being held.

So I held her.

Bridget wasn’t achieving her milestones and the doctor ordered testing of her brain. We knew she was different. That she wasn’t the perfect child you dream. They performed genetic testing and told us she had a genetic mutation that had never been discovered. The testing revealed a slow brain pattern.

I asked, “Is my daughter retarded?” and I was gently told, “We don’t use that word anymore. But essentially, yes.”

The best advice I received that day was to never put limits on Bridget. Do not limit her with labels or assume she would not achieve greatness. That perfection has a new meaning.

One of the greatest things Bridget has achieved is changing the world view most of us have. We have more empathy for that mother in the grocery store. We have a smile for the parent who is pushing their child in a wheelchair. We buy a glass of wine for that mom in the restaurant. We look at our disabled child and think, “Thank God this IS our child”.

We have banned the “R” word in our house and in our lives.

Bridget has changed the lives of not just her parents, but her community. She is the mayor of her school. She is hugged in the grocery store. She has allowed friends to be comfortable asking questions. Hard and difficult questions just six years ago I would have been embarrassed to ask.

When I was told my daughter would be developmentally disabled, the world I knew was destroyed and recreated. I resolved that this would not change the way I would nurture my daughter, that she would be provided the same experiences and opportunities as her sister. By not placing limits, Bridget has created an advocate in her sister.  She has given an 11 year-old a purpose and a drive. One who includes her sister in everything because, in Abby’s words, “that is what sisters do”.

I have grown in so many ways since that first day in the NICU. I will educate when someone says retard.  I have become knowledgeable in any treatment, medication, therapy or doctor who can positively impact Bridget. It was through motherhood I learned the value of friendship, and which of those friends to leave behind.  Being Bridget’s mother has allowed me to find my voice.  We have created a village of support that includes therapists, friends and families who understand that life with a child who has special needs is still a fantastic life.  A life where the smallest accomplishments are celebrated.  A life where we cry and laugh with equal measure.

I am no longer that perfect model of the working mother who can do it all. Motherhood trumps meetings.  I frequently go a day without a shower, happy that I managed to brush my teeth. My house is rarely clean, but it is full of life.

Six years ago I bargained with God to let my daughter live.

It took being Bridget’s mom to show me what living was.

Kerri Ames is a working mom from Cape Cod with her husband, two daughters, untrainable dog and a bunny who was supposed to live outside. Kerri writes about raising two children, one whom has a rare genetic disorder, with humor and honesty at (Un)Diagnosed but Still Okay. Kerri possesses many titles: mom, wife, advocate, business manager, writer, trail runner and lover of wine. Her passion is advocacy for all children to be accepted for who they are regardless of ability. Kerri believes you can conquer any challenge in this world with good friends, family and a bonfire on the beach. She acknowledges that without her village of support her life would be infinitely more difficult.  You can follow Kerri on Facebook and Twitter at @undiagnosedbut.

 

The Gene My Mother Didn’t Give Me

(This is the story I read at the recent, amazing Listen to your Mother show – video coming in the summer!)

Today I cooked for my family and nobody died.

It’s always a good day when my cooking doesn’t maim, injure or kill. Because every time I cook, I am convinced that someone will turn pale, clutch his or her belly, foam at the mouth and then sprint for the bathroom. Or just keel right over.

Needless to say, I am not a natural in the kitchen. I try. After all, I’m a Mom. This is part of the job description, right? It’s supposed to be part of my maternal DNA.

I definitely did not inherit the cooking gene from my Mom. She’s the world’s greatest cook. I yearn for her meatloaf and cheesecake. When I’m sick, her chicken soup is the only medicine that heals. Her trifle is legendary in England. I have fond memories of helping her measure and stir, as she’d prep and bake. Osmosis, however, failed me.

Like me, she wasn’t actually a natural-born cook. But once married, my Mom experienced a culinary metamorphosis, blossoming into this competent, fearless creator of deliciousness. Hoping to nurture similar qualities in me, my parents sent me to an all-girls school. Alas, while I did well academically, my grades for “domestic science” were well below average.

Fast-forward to my 30’s. One evening, I invited my soon-to-be-fiancé over to my place, intent on making a romantic meal. I prepared the only dish I really knew. He wanted to hang with me in the kitchen, sizing up my qualifications for future wifedom, motherhood and domesticity. But he quickly recoiled when he saw that every ingredient was either from a can, a carton or the freezer. Mortified, I banished him from the kitchen.

Did I mention he’s a professionally trained chef? No pressure, right? Well, despite his horror at my pasta mush, he still married me. Maybe he thought my culinary skills might emerge, like they had for my mom? Fortunately, our relationship is based on many other qualities, like good humor and forgiveness.

These days, I can be inspired by a recipe, game to give it a go and expose my family to something new. I’m all about Pinterest. My “recipes to try” board has more than one thousand pins of culinary delights. I’ve attempted about three of them. My success rate is, well, low. Usually the end result looks nothing like the picture. It might taste good but my kids usually turn their noses up when served something that looks, smells and tastes suspiciously different from chicken tenders or mac and cheese. My husband, bless him, praises my efforts, chews his meal with enthusiasm and makes all the right “mmmm” noises. He coaxes the kids to try at least a bite. The silver lining? Plenty of leftovers.

It wasn’t always this way. When they were infants, they ate everything I cooked. Yes, cooked. I was really really good at making purées. Because, boiling and mushing stuff, that I can do – like a pro. And, since I wasn’t able to nurse my kids when they were infants, preparing food this way made me feel like mother of the year, all wholesome and nurturing. I was an over-achiever in the purée department; my fridge filled with baggies of green, yellow, even purple frozen cubes of homemade nutrition. My kids willingly consumed vegetables that today are considered devil spawn. Beets. Parsnips. Spinach. Even black beans. It was good while it lasted.

I’m happy to tell you that one of my cooking adventures has in fact become the stuff of legend on social networks. Allow me to introduce you to the Hippo Cake.

It was Rosh Hashanah and like all Jewish festivals, it’s celebrated with food. A few days before, I called my mother and asked for her wonderful honey cake recipe, thinking it was my maternal duty to bake one for my family at this auspicious time of the year.

I’ll never know what really went wrong. Did I confuse the measurements? Maybe I omitted the baking soda? Perhaps the oven was the wrong temperature (after all, British recipes are in Celsius not Fahrenheit)?

Never has a photo posted on Facebook received so much attention. “What is that?” was the most frequent comment. “Um, it’s a honey cake,” I’d respond. “It looks like a hippo,” quipped someone and everyone resoundingly agreed. And so the notorious Hippo Cake was born. Every year now, friends and family clamor for me to re-post the Hippo Cake photo on Facebook, claiming that the holiday cannot properly commence until I do.

So this is what it comes down to. I can bake cakes that look like animals and purée like a champ. Evidently, as a mother, cooking is not my strongest suit. But at least I haven’t killed anyone. They say genes can skip a generation, so I’m hoping my kids will inherit their quick wits, good looks and self-deprecating humor from me – and their cooking skills from their grandmother.

The infamous Hippo Cake

The infamous Hippo Cake


LTYM cast

The wonderful cast of #LTYM Boston – May 9, 2015

 

  

The Listen to your Mother Show: A Preview

What’s the one thing we all have in common other than, you know, breathing?

It’s mothers.

We all have – or had – mothers. Be they birth mothers, adoptive mothers, foster mothers, step mothers, grandmothers. Some families have two mothers. Some families have two fathers.

Many of us are, or were, mothers. Dealing with all the highs and lows that come with the title.

Some of you aspire to be mothers. Some of you became accidental mothers. Some of you really don’t want to be a mother. Some of you did, but life took a different course. Some of us are working mothers; some of us are stay at home mothers. Some of us are married; some of you aren’t. Some of us are divorced or separated from our partners. Some of us have infants. Some of us have toddlers. Some of us have teens. Some of our kids have grown up and become parents themselves. Some of our kids are healthy; some have disabilities.

We are all sons and daughters. We all have or had relationships with our mothers. Good, bad or otherwise. Some of us aspire to be like our mothers. Some run in the opposite direction.

Motherhood is a universal reality – wherever you fit in this spectrum.

On Saturday May 9 at 2pm, 12 women from in and around Boston will step up to the microphone at Boston’s Old South Church to share their stories of motherhood. These remarkable, talented writers are daring. They are strong. They are eloquent. They are nervous. They are entertaining. They are emotional.

I’m one of these women. And I can’t wait to share my story with you.

I hope you’ll attend this amazing event. I guarantee you’ll be riveted. I fully expect you to shed a tear. I’m hoping you’ll laugh. You may even learn something. I know that you’ll see reflections of your own story in every shade of the rainbow of motherhood and you’ll be grateful that you came.

Buy your tickets here or at the door.

See you there!

Giving motherhood a microphone

Boston’s Listen to your Mother show is on May 9

 

Five Random Things About Me

My blogger pal Kimberly of RedShuttersBlog threw this challenge my way after she had been tagged by Phyllis of Napkin Hoarder who had been tagged by Casey of Life With Roozle who had been tagged by ….. well, you get the gist. So it’s my turn.

  1. If you know me, then you are less than six degrees from not just Kevin Bacon, but also Queen Elizabeth and Elton John.
  2. I speak French.
  3. I wish I was a Latin ballroom dancer.
  4. I love anchovies and hate watermelon.
  5. I met my husband on a blind date. The introduction was via my brother. Who had met his wife on a blind date a decade or so earlier. That introduction was via me. Boom.

You’re up next: Ben of DadoftheDecade, Lindsey of a Design So VastTarah of Don’t Mind The Noise and, let’s send this thing international ….. Benedicte of Eugenie StreetSpencer of  Stuff Happens and Sharon of Speed Skating Mom.

Tag, you’re it.

(P.S. Once upon a time, Boston.com Moms asked me for 20 facts about me so if you have nothing better to do (seriously, you must have something better to do), you can find it here.)

 

 

I Get Around

…. to quote the Beach Boys.

Over the past 2-3 months, I’ve not just been blogging here but have also popped up in a couple of other spots that you might have missed. So I thought I’d do you all a favor and plop them all in one place.

At the end of July, Dr Portia Jackson of the Working Motherhood community was kind enough to invite me onto her show. Working Motherhood features podcast interviews several times a week encouraging us working Moms to share our challenges, points of view and successes. You can listen to my interview here. (Heads-up: it’s about 30 mins long and let me tell you, working Moms, if you have 30 mins to spare, my advice is to grab a nap or get your nails done rather than listen to my drivel.) My main advice? Don’t sweat the small stuff, take it one day at a time and don’t take yourself too seriously.

As some of you might know, I attended BlogHer ’14 also at the end of July which was an incredible experience. I was surrounded by so many amazing bloggers and it inspired me to up my game. Consequently, two of my posts were selected in August as feature blogs posts on BlogHer (which reaches 100 million women each month) which delighted me no end – Taking Off The Training Wheels and Before You Judge: Here’s What You Don’t See.

From time to time, I contribute to my local newspaper the Framingham Patch. In August, Patch asked for readers’ thoughts following an incident when a mom’s son was ousted from his school for something she posted on Facebook. Social Expression and Responsibility tackles the obligation to consider your words before you post. Most recently, I tackled the pressing question of current society: Have We Reached Peak Pumpkin?

Meanwhile, the BreadwinningMom blog invited me to answer some questions about how I “juggle”. Not the beanbag kind, the working-mom kind – you can find it here.

And, as this little blog approaches 35,000 visits, I want to say a huge and heartfelt thank you to every single of you who takes a minute or so out of your busy lives to reach my words. Thank you!

“Be All Of Who You Are” & 24 Other Great Quotes from #BlogHer14

 

#BlogHer14 words

The words that mattered most at BlogHer14

I don’t have time to write a full recap about all that made BlogHer14 an amazing and thought provoking experience. Besides, so many of you have already written recaps that mirror much of what’s in my head and heart. So instead, I’m perusing the notes I took and the tweets I tweeted or retweeted – and listed below are the statements that impacted me most. Apologies in advance for not being able to attribute them or bungling them a tad — but know that your words were heard and felt.

Be all of who you are

What people think of me is not my problem

I an unable to can

Be a conduit not a vessel

Don’t fear the stories that make you uncomfortable and make you think

I try not to tell other people’s stories but I’m very committed to telling my own

The best networkers are givers

No is a complete sentence

Sometimes the words burn hot and I just have to get them out

Live life as though everything is rigged in your favor

Being tired is the new norm and we have to change that

We need to listen even harder

Make connections that map to your values and your soul

Find the moments when you can enter the conversation and have something meaningful to say

Be additive

If you don’t have a seat at the table, bring your own chair

You don’t need permission: you’re you

Just give a crap

Good intuitive poignant writing will always be relevant

Comparison is the thief of joy

I want my blog to be a love letter to my kids

Value the slow

We are creating culture with every blog post we publish

Writers write. Always. Everywhere.

Words make the world.

#BlogHer14

P.S. I write about the key takeaways from BlogHer for brands for my company’s blog. You can find it here.

P.P.S. I also pulled together a Storify to highlight the tweets and images from BlogHer – it’s over here.

Storify: #BlogHer14 As Told in 140 Characters

I’m still processing all that was #BlogHer14. But in the meantime, here’s a quick Storify of some of the many Tweets and photos from the conference.

#BlogHer14 highlights

A Storify of all that was #BlogHer14

 

The Words That Mattered Most at #BlogHer14

#BlogHer14  words

The words that mattered most at BlogHer14

The Understudy

Guest post by Tarah Cammett

Writing for me has always been simple.  A therapy of the mind.  A way to release my past.  Process breakups and major life changes.  Throw it out there in the Universe and remove it from my spirit.  What I have realized as I have tried to write about my experiences so far of being a ‘Stepmother’ – or ‘Understudy’ as I so often refer to it, is that I’m struggling.  Greatly.  It’s easy to write about the past; things that no longer exist or serve me anymore.  It is however, extremely difficult to write about something deeply personal and ever present in my day to day life.  More so, how do I possibly encapsulate all that I have experienced?  How this has changed me?  How wonderful and frightening it’s all been.  I can’t.  Not in a simple blog post but I have to start somewhere.  So consider this a Preface.  An introduction.  Perhaps this will be a breakthrough and a journey into a new place as a writer.  Perhaps it will be an utter disaster.  You’ll have to be the judge.

About a year and a half ago I was coming off the tail end of my own version of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ and unwinding from an incredible spiritual journey of the soul.  I had spent months traveling, talking, seeking.  Hours on therapy couches and a lot of time spent with an overly priced Shaman (which by the way was worth every penny).  My mind was at peace.  I finally felt at rest, that I had let these ‘things’ that had followed me around, plaguing me, go.  I had discovered acceptance in the not knowing and in the just being.  I was fiercely content or more so adamant about being alone and savoring every moment of it.  It was of course, in that moment, that my now husband walked into my life and brought with him his wee 1-yr old baby girl.

My life for all of its chaos has always been very controlled.  Well, because I have controlled it.  Controlled chaos.  Maybe even on some levels planned chaos.  But I didn’t plan them.  I didn’t plan on him regardless of the secret hope of one day finding someone who my soul sort of melted into but I most certainly did not plan her.

He was easy.  Every day that we spent together I fell more and more.  He became funnier.  Smarter.  Sexier. The boy that I had assured would never be anything more than a ‘buddy’ and/or ‘lover’, I found myself wanting to rush home from work to see.  He was just there, and never left and it was as if we had always been.  It just made sense.  And then, well, then I was introduced to his daughter.  She wasn’t what got me – regardless of how beautiful she was, it was the way he was with her.  So hyper conscious.  So madly in love.  So gentle and patient.  Nail in the coffin.  I was a goner.  There is nothing sexier than a good father.

She and I weren’t so easy at first.  It wasn’t that children made me uncomfortable.  I love kids.  I have god babies and nephews and until I met the Peanut they were the center of my Universe.  It was that upon meeting her I realized that I had to shift what I understood of love.  I knew in an instant that I would have to accept my place in my husband’s heart.  I would never be first.  And that was something that I had never experienced.  There would always be someone ahead of me.  It was something my ego wasn’t accustomed to.  Maybe in the beginning I was weary of her because of that.  Or because she was so painfully shy she didn’t immediately come running into my arms.  Perhaps it was the horrible relationship he had with her mother that I internally projected distaste for on to her.  All I can express, if I was to be completely truthful was that it wasn’t love at first sight.  For either of us.

It was ultimately a slow evolution of learning about unconditional love in a way that I had not yet known.  Getting to know a person, who is older and has sort of worked out their idiosyncrasies is one thing.  Getting to know an infant who’s changing every instant is another.  It was like navigating a mine field.  Ok.  It still is.  As a parent, it’s your choice and there’s a sort of genetic bond that prods you through.  As a ‘stepparent’ it’s a bit different.  This little intruder kind of appears and you’re supposed to just love them.  I guess in writing that, I just realized it is the same for any type of parent – genetic or not.  Perhaps it’s just that as a ‘stepparent’ I found myself being hyper cautious, and hyper positive.  Both of which made me feel off kilter.

Not long into it I found this weird ‘instinct’ I wasn’t aware existed.  I knew what her cries meant.  I knew what we should do for her.  I would always wake up 5 minutes before I would hear her on the monitor and wait knowing that she was about to wake as well.  As we adjusted to each other we began to play and laugh and every time I got her to smile or giggle my heart melted as my internal ego high fived herself at the minor accomplishment.  I found myself personalizing her whims less.  It’s ok if she wanted Daddy instead of me. It just makes the times that she does ask for me all the more sweet.  She became my first thought in the morning.  My last thought at night.  Her well-being.  Her future.  Loving her made me feel closer to him.  We had a shared goal.  Her existence.

Well, and then I became the cliché.  Poopy diapers, booger filled noses.  Singing weird made up random songs that made her laugh uncontrollably.  Reading books in funny accents and making silly faces to combat hers.  We became a couple.  The same way that two stranger’s sort of fall in love I guess.  Losing inhibitions, slowly being yourself.  Getting to know one another and then finally just realizing that everything weird about them is something great about you.

It’s not to say that this love isn’t without struggle.  I despise the word ‘stepmother’ or ‘stepchild’.  I don’t think of her as something in lieu of.  She’s part of my soul circle.  Souls travel in circles throughout lifetimes to find each other again and I believe she found me early on in this one because I’m supposed to teach her something.  But what?  Sometimes that thought plagues me.  I have no creepy notions that I’m her ‘true’ mother.  She has a mother.   I respect her mother’s genetic and emotional role.  I have no desire to replace it, circumvent it, or trump it.  I just want to be a positive force in her Universe as well.  Someone that she believes in.  Yes, when we’re at the grocery and the cashier wants to recap the perils of childbirth and gives me the, “Well you remember what that was like…” line, do I nod in vaginal unity?  Of course.  It’s easier.  But I am not her mother.  Maybe that does hurt on some level given my affinity for her but maybe what hurts more is that I don’t know how to ‘label’ our relationship.  To find a word, or a phrase that encapsulates it so that when it’s said people nod knowingly – that’s what I would like.    A word that means more than ‘step’ anything.

There was a moment a couple months back.  She and I had been dancing in the kitchen (we do that often).  It had just been one of those fantastic weekends where we laughed and played all weekend, everything was just happy.  We were packing her up to return her to mother’s.  It’s always a shit feeling that sweeps over hubs and I.  We don’t want it to end, but it is what it is and in essence the only way the Peanut has ever known.  I digress.  I was on my knees giving her kisses, telling her how much I loved her and that I would miss her and how proud I was of her and she began stroking my hair, then my cheeks.  “Mama” she said.  “Yes, you’re going to see Mama in a few minutes and you’re going to have so much fun with her” I responded.  She shook her head no.  She again stroked my cheeks and said, “Mama” and she stared intently into my eyes.  I knew what she meant.  It was her way of acknowledging my presence as a maternal figure in her life, she of course wasn’t calling me her mother. It was the only way at two years old she knew how to express herself.  I cried for pretty much a solid three hours after she left, just out of love, and wonder, and maybe a twinge of sadness.  I’m quite sure when I saw her a few days later she put out her hand and told me to, “Go!” so that she could be alone with Daddy but that’s how it works.  The ebb and flow.

I can’t possibly write about all of this in any succinct logical way.  One day I was wild and single and the next day I was picking out a crib and baby proofing a house.  I could create 80 chapters on each moment, emotion, phase, understanding, point of being, crushing moment of sadness, elation….you name it.  For now, I know this.  You are always exactly where you are supposed to be.  My husband brought me a beautiful gift.  A dowry if you will.  He brought me a teacher.  Someone who will challenge all that I have and will come to know and see of this world and myself every single day.  She might not be mine but god dammit she is part of my tribe and I will do whatever I can to protect her and to give her light.  My compass broke a long time ago so I’m navigating by moon phases, toddler emotions, laughter and levels of exhaustion but somehow, I still wake up every morning excited at what the sounds of the monitor will bring.  So I’m going with it.

Thanks for listening.

Tarah is a hippie corporate sell-out Marketing Director by day and a soul seeking Moon follower by night, hiding away in a tiny town by the ocean.

tarah

The Facebook Post That Made Me a Terrible Mother

by Kristin Parran

I can’t keep it in any longer. I must be the worst mother ever. It doesn’t matter that my not-yet-3-year old son adores me. Or that he climbs in bed with my husband and I and tells us we make the best team (then asks for high-fives). Or tells me he loves me more than cars. CARS! None of that matters.

Two things I have read today make me believe that despite all of these things, I must be a terrible mother. First, I read a blog post about breastfeeding. Or, rather about not breastfeeding. The author shared her honest feelings around the disappointment – and subsequent judgment – around not being able to breastfeed. The point was that mothers should leave other mothers alone – breastfeeding or not. Funny, though, all of the comments from women who felt judged about not breastfeeding came from a place of not being able to breastfeed. I didn’t see one from a woman who CHOSE not to breastfeed, like I did. It’s hard as a new mother to not feel at least a little judgment with every decision you make – even if it’s self-inflicted judgment. But, I am increasingly finding that mothers like me – those who choose to bottle feed for one reason or another – don’t exist in public forums. They sit back, try to stay unnoticed and feed their babies the best way they know how. Some choose the expensive organic formula. Some pay for soy-based. Some do extensive research to understand which product is best for their babies. But the thing that connects all of these women is that they love their babies just as much as breastfeeding women do. I love my son no less than the next woman. I firmly believe – and would argue til I died – that in the way I know how, I have given my son the best chances for a life full of love, happiness and health. But it’s hard to find people like me out there. At least those who admit it.

The second thing I saw was on Facebook. This kind of thing usually doesn’t affect me the way it did today. Maybe it’s because I’m more sensitive, or because my stepdaughter is visiting and that always has my emotions doing somersaults. Either way, it hit me. An old acquaintance just went back to work and posted that she’s missing her babies more than ever. But that’s not it – it’s what she said next that hit me: “I know every working mom would rather be at home with their babies all the time.” I dropped everything and started this post. I couldn’t help it. My brain is screaming. You ARE a good mom. You ARE a good mom. But, am I? Really? My response to that post was not: “Sister…you are so right! I would so much rather be at home with a screaming toddler, playing with cars and arguing about naptime Every. SINGLE. DAY.” Rather, instead my response: “That’s BS! While I LOVE my baby, I also LOVE my job. And the people I work with. And the opportunity to be ME. And the socialization. And that I contribute something financially to my family. I love having both. I NEED to have both.”

I get the sense that a lot of mothers will read my response and gasp. GASP. HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT!?! How could you say you love your job AND your baby? How could you not want to spend every single waking moment with your child? The answer for me is simple. Being me – the me who loves my job and my husband and my son and my friends and my time alone – makes me the very best mother I can be. Whether or not that mother meets standards set by others is something I can no longer judge myself against. I wish I could say that feeling follows me everywhere, every day. But, it obviously doesn’t. Rather than reading that post and saying: “There are mothers of every color, and I happen to a bright pink” I took it as a jab. A knife turning in the heart that is still trying to heal from post-partum. So, I’m not perfect. I do let some things get to me. But after the initial crazy self-judgment and guilt wear off, I once again see that I’m not such a bad mom. My son is an incredible human being. And, at the end of each day, I have to believe that I have something to do with that.

Kristin Parran is a mother of one (nearly 3-year old) boy and wife to a husband who anchors her in peace. Wise enough to know life can (and should) have balance, brave enough to listen to her gut – but not always smart or Zen enough to stop sweating the small stuff – she recently moved her family 1,100 miles to give everyone the best shot at equilibrium. She spends her days working from home for a tech PR firm and shedding tears of gratitude for newfound peace – which is soon interrupted by the impatience of reality. Each time she leaves her house, she secretly hopes to be discovered by Keith Urban, Brad Paisley or Dierks Bentley as a (silent, yet energetic) back-up singer. Or, to someday see her name on the cover of a book.

KP

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 68 other followers

%d bloggers like this: