The stories we’ll wish we wrote down
There’s a moment in motherhood when you finally exhale. Not because the laundry’s done (it never is), or because dinner didn’t end in tears (yours or theirs). But because your baby — your sweet, confusing, sleep-fighting baby — has been sleeping through the night. Not once. Not by accident. But for real. A few nights turns into a week. Then a month. But then, just as the ground feels solid again – 3:00 AM. A blood-curdling scream. Out of nowhere.
Motherhood has a way of making the completely absurd feel strangely normal. Like saying sentences you never imagined would come out of your mouth… with the seriousness of a courtroom judge. “Do not lick the picnic table at the playground.” “We don’t pet bees.” “WHY are you handing me poop?” And then there are moments that leave you with no words at all. When all you can think is: really, this too? You just wanted two minutes alone. Not to scroll. Not to nap. Not even to breathe deeply. Just to pee. Or, in this case, more than pee. But…
There are certain motherhood moments that don’t announce themselves as life-changing. They don’t come with soft lighting or a meaningful soundtrack. No one is standing nearby with a camera saying, “This is going to alter your entire perspective on your childhood.” Sometimes it happens while you’re standing at the sink. Again. Washing dishes. Again. For the third time that day. I was a single mom with a toddler underfoot, doing the regular daily survival dance of snacks, dishes, diapers, crumbs, questions, spills, and more dishes somehow. On top of that, I was helping care for my mom while she recovered…
There are things women are taught to carry quietly. I learned that the hard way. When I had my miscarriage, I learned how quickly pain gets pushed into whispers. How some losses are treated like private burdens, too tender or too inconvenient to say out loud. And when I finally did speak, when I stopped carrying it alone, I was stunned by how many women around me had walked that same road in silence. Heavy loss. Hidden grief. Whole stories tucked behind polite smiles. I remember thinking: how are we all carrying this and calling it normal? Then I became…
Motherhood breaks down every illusion of control you thought you had. You can dress your baby in something cute. You can pack the bag. You can line up the car seat and the blanket and the carefully written questions for the pediatrician. But then, three steps out the door, your two-week-old can throw up all over both of you, and suddenly your best-laid plans are dripping down your shirt. I stood there on the stairs that morning, baby wrapped against me, outfit ruined, chest soaked. It was her very first doctor’s visit, and I was twenty minutes behind before we…
It happens somewhere ordinary. The post office, the bakery, the parking lot. And at first, you think you can stop it. But then it hits. Full force. The arched back. The flailing arms. The noise that feels like it could shatter glass. And it’s not the strangers that get to you. It’s your mom, standing a few feet away. The way her eyes widen. The tight purse of her lips. The secondhand embarrassment radiating off her like heat. You feel her watching you, silently narrating every move. “I never would have let you act like that.” “A good look would’ve…
December is deceptive when you have kids. It’s magical. Twinkling lights, hot cocoa, the first snow and Santa. But that’s not really winter, is it? It’s pre winter. The magic before reality hits like a Mac truck. When the tree’s gone, and the lights are packed away, real winter begins. And winter with a toddler is less “cozy season” and more survival mode. Because December lets you believe you’re the kind of mother who does winter well. You picture rosy cheeks. Little boots by the door. Maybe a wholesome outing where everyone comes back inside hungry and happy and slightly…
Bedtime with a toddler can feel like a countdown. By the time you make it to the bedroom, you can almost see the finish line. Bath is done. Pajamas are on. The book is picked. The lights are low. You are so close. So you start moving like closeness is the same thing as done. You read a little faster. You sing a little shorter. You tuck the blanket in like this might be the tuck that finally works. And then they ask for more. Another book. Another sip. Another song. Another minute of your body next to theirs. And…
It wasn’t the dark. It wasn’t monsters under the bed. It wasn’t even the vacuum, though that got a good scream or two. The first thing my daughter was terrified of was flies. Or as she named them, with complete toddler confidence: “shoo flies.” She thought that was their actual name. Not a command. Not a phrase. Just… the name of the tiny buzzing villains that had suddenly taken over her imagination. And oh, how they scared her. Not just during the day, when she’d flinch and cry if one dared to come near her snack. But at night. Every…
There are moments in motherhood when you see glimmers of what’s taking root. Sometimes they take you by surprise. Things you didn’t even realize you were teaching.