Personal

Before we had babies, I spent some time watching other people with kids, thinking about how I was going to do things when I had my own. I will be the best mom ever, I would say to myself. My kids will sleep through the night at three months old, and they’ll be potty trained at 18 months. They are going to be so smart and well-behaved! If only life worked that way. Reality is that my almost-three-year-old son has a speech delay. But he can say 50+ words now, and he has learned 3 words in sign language: milk, please, and thanks. My 11-month-old still wakes up an average of three times per night to nurse. But he takes an afternoon nap at the same time as his big brother. I’m tired, but I’m blissfully happy. I had high hopes and big dreams. But reality, in all its imperfection, is far more perfect.

I’ve been thinking. My thoughts often go in a swirl that rivals even my kids’ playroom for chaos (and believe me, their playroom is a mess). I want to post more often about me. Just like any other mother, my children are a huge, deep, real part of my life. I don’t often talk about motherhood in hushed tones, in awe of its power and beauty. Although it is certainly powerful and beautiful, it is also frustrating and funny. Funny in that physical comedy kind of way. I often feel like I’m the unlucky lady in a movie who is on her way to a job interview, running terribly late, wearing a freshly ironed dress, only to find herself standing on the corner of the street as a car whisks by, spraying her with muddy water from a pothole. Motherhood is definitely easier if you have the ability to laugh at yourself. Life with children is unwavering in its ability to provide the most beautiful, tinkling laughter and the most heart-wrenching, frustrated tears in the same day.

But the laughter almost always makes up for the tears.

Lucas, nine months old.