I Googled Complicated Mom And This is What I Found

I’m typing this while my twins chatter, fighting the (second) nap they desperately protested to get back last week. There were buckets of tears, I heard a new screech they can pull off, and then they started falling asleep while sitting up, so I decided to give them back their second nap and stop the transition to one. For a moment, their need for this made me happy. I embraced their age, glad they were still young enough to need extra sleep. I relished in the fact I still had sort-of-babies, avoiding how quickly they’re changing: the memory of infancy shooting straight up my spine, the tired in my bones, the throbbing of sleep deprivation, and – now – the longing to relive those moments.

Then reality – songs shouted by my chubby crib-caged boy – echoed through my bedroom while, instead of sleeping, he fought to stay awake during nap two. Did I have it right before? Were they really ready for one nap?

Why is it that just when you think you have one good answer, your children will remind you that you’re flat out wrong?

I’m a complicated mom: the kind who wants to be everything for my kids but also wants them to be autonomous. The kind that’s really sure of a decision before it’s made and almost always uncomfortable with the outcome of making that choice. The mom who embraces being needed while fearing it’ll never end.

My kids really like natural peanut butter, but most of the time they get it with sugary grape jelly.

I also fear my kids will have differing beliefs than me but really want them to think for themselves, and I know I’ve already made a crap ton of mistakes, but I’m sure my kids are also mine because they need a mom like me. We are souls intertwined by necessity and serendipity.

That’s deep, right?

You don’t see shirts with “complicated mom” on them. You might see hot mess moms and crunchy moms, boy and f-bomb moms, but nobody claims complication. Nobody stands up and says, “I’m flying by the seat of my pants even when you think I have it all together,” without trying to convince you they really do have most-everything figured out.

Why? Because, my guess is, that’s all of us, really.

We’re either just too scared or too busy to admit it. Labelling ourselves as one thing means you don’t have to think that hard about everything else. If you’re a type-a momma, then it’s okay to stay organized and on schedule.

I Googled “complicated moms” before starting this blog post, and here are the top four results:

 

How do you deal with an overbearing mother? 

How do you deal with a toxic mother?

How do I fix my mother daughter relationship?

What is the definition of a bad parent?

It feels gross to read that. I can’t think of anyone who wants to read about fixing their relationship with their children when their babies are still in diapers (or elementary school, or…). We glean hope from avoiding hard conversations and, instead, feel successful when we plan day trips or home activities (while also looking good doing it). To be clear, I don’t mean to sound judgmental of effort. There’s zero wrong with doing any of that. In fact, it makes you awesome.

But I guess the silence around being multifaceted and contradictory is kind of jolting to me, and I wish it was more okay to be all of yourself, even when it’s confusing.

Being a mom is funny, and I don’t have wise words or an explanation for why. I think motherhood is just a series of events reminding you you don’t have the world figured out yet and – maybe – you never will. It’s invigorating and humbling, but there’s no time to stop worrying, and somewhere in the complicated emotions of it all is this truth:

We’re all doing our very best, even when other people can’t see it and even when we’re an assortment of oxymorons.

I just needed to say this for myself. I need it to be okay.

Because I think the puzzle is beautiful, not toxic or bad, and I want you to know I see and think you’re amazing (and in-a-good-way complicated), too.