Mommy Confessionals

First things first: No mom is perfect. We know it, we say it, we repeat it to ourselves when life isn’t going the way we envisioned it. But for some reason we’re constantly judging our own actions and those of other moms against a completely imagined Mary Poppins-esque mommy figure. Though they may not admit it aloud, I’m sure even the kindest of women have caught themselves evaluating the quality of playground snacks given to a playmate, appraising another mom’s postpartum body or weighing in on the evergreen battle of breast versus bottle.

Why? Because we’re women. And since the dawn of our self-awareness we’ve been taught to measure our first draft selves against the edited, refined ready-for-primetime presentations of other females. The result? We either feel like we never quite measure up or no other woman ever quite measures up. And so begin the mommy wars.

The truth is, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of thinking every other mom has it more together than me. And I’m tired of the charade of making others think I have it more together than them. We’re all imperfect. We’re all flawed. And yet somehow, we’re all – yes, all – still wonderful, beautiful women and mothers that are just perfect for the children we have.

That’s why I’ve decided to (try to) stop the attempts at projecting a perfect image. To admit to some of my insecurities and fallibilities. My hope is that you’ll join me in confessing some of your quirks, failures and idiosyncrasies so that next time we’re at a park, a play date or just cruising the mall instead of judging our fellow moms we can smile and celebrate the fact that even with our failings, our children are happy, healthy and loved…and at least partially clothed in public.

The catch? It feels great to shed ourselves of the little shames, secrets and guilts. What’s even better is to do it without having to apologize or make any excuses for them. If you don’t judge me for my confessions (e.g., think they’re too mundane or exceptionally egregious) I promise not to judge you for yours. Agreed? Agreed.

So without further apology, explanation or delay, here are some of my mommy confessions. Or at least the ones I’m ready to let live in the big, scary world.

To the outside world, I’m committed to eating healthy, organic and as much local produce as possible…but I don’t always buy organic berries. I mean, $6 for a pint of raspberries? Come on. I have a 529 to fund.

My son occasionally goes several days without a bath. To the point where his little stinky boy germs become repulsive even to me, his mommy. The reason for this lapse? My husband and I were just too tired.

The second night after my son transitioned from the crib to his big boy bed (for safety reasons – climbing) we traveled to my in-laws’ home in Arizona. Getting him to nap was a nightmare. So we – gulp – closed the door and held the knob while he railed and cried and tried to get out…and then locked himself in. While we frantically attempted to unlock the knob, our sweet boy fell asleep with his little fingers reaching out to us from beneath the door. [Insert never-forgive-myself shame face here.]

Sometimes I let him watch Jake or Blaze or Daniel Tiger longer than I’d ever admit just so I can finish a cup of coffee. And breathe.

I don’t like playing cars.

The morning my son was born was one of the worst mornings of my life. I had been awake for 72 hours, gone through a shaky, vomity and uncomfortable C-section and more than anything, I just wanted to sleep. As they stitched my incision, I remember thinking that if this was motherhood, I was screwed.

Bake my own gluten-free, dairy-free cheese crackers? Please. Hand over the goldfish.

I’ve eaten a Flintstone’s vitamin more than once.

My house is almost always picked up. And almost always not clean.

Though I technically have the time to clean my house, I have a cleaner come in once a month because the only thing I hate more than cleaning is a disgusting house.

I nursed for 10 months and when my son finally decided on his own that he’d had enough, I was so relieved I cried.

My son has taken to appearing at our bedside around 3am. Every night. Some nights I pretend to be asleep so my husband has to carry him back down to bed.

My husband and I take annual week-long (or longer) vacations without our son. While we miss him, we don’t miss him enough to give up our grown-up retreats.

When my son throws a nuclear-level tantrum in the middle of a busy Target check-out lane, the last thing I want to do is calmly stand by and let him finish whatever rant he’s in. I want to yell, grab him by the arm and run from the store. But I don’t. Because I know you’re watching.

I sometimes go to the gym not to workout but so my son can play in the childcare center…and I can have an hour or two of peace.

I don’t let my son win at Sneaky Snacky Squirrel. He has to learn to be a gracious loser somehow, right?

I’ve pretended not to know where Sneaky Snacky Squirrel was. It was on the top shelf in my closet.

I worry that we’re choosing the wrong preschool. And live in a subpar school district, and don’t have a big enough house or yard, or have enough educational toys, or… Well, I worry about pretty much every decision we make for our little guy even though the smile on his face tells me he’s doing just fine, thank you very much.

It sometimes takes all my energy not to walk out the door when he just. Won’t. Go. To. Sleep.

Cereal for dinner? It’s happened.

I wear leggings or yoga pants most days because they’re easy, comfortable and usually the first things I see on my bedroom floor.

I love spending Mondays and Fridays with my son. But when Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday mornings roll around I love waving goodbye to him as he heads to daycare.

I sometimes forget to brush my son’s teeth in the morning.

I have a hidden stash of Girl Scout Cookies that my son will never, ever, ever know about.

I just want to be able to go to the bathroom by myself. Once. Per week. Please?

Watching my son’s 529 grow is almost better than an episode of Girls. Just knowing that he won’t have the same amount of loans as I did is an incredibly powerful feeling.

Another reason I love my dog? He cleans the floor after dinner. And lunch. And breakfast.

Most days I have no idea what I’m doing. But somehow every morning ends with another bedtime and the hours between have usually been pretty dang amazing.

So how about you? What are your mommy confessions? Please don’t leave me hanging here by myself; join in! After all, you’re among (non-judgy) friends.