Casey Lane, M.O.M & M.F.A
I was leaning against the refrigerator, watching my six-month-old do tummy-time when I asked the women in my family (with children older than mine), "At what stage in your kids lives do you think you were, or will be, your best mom-self?" One mom answered, "When my oldest was still in the womb." Another laughed and admitted, "When they're adults." I laughed too, in that, holy-shit-I-was-not-expecting-that sort of way. But I did consider, either all moms believe they're never good enough, or I'd grossly underestimated what lied ahead.
I was right on both counts.
The desire to become a parent is like seeing a tidal wave and reaching for your surfboard. It looks easy from a distance, but staying calm while riding the daily chop, under pressure to produce a quality human, unearthed the, let's just say - messier parts of me. I was suddenly crying, or depressed, or laughing, or grateful, and all in a span of 20 minutes. When my daughter turned two and the screaming began, I knew I was in way over my head.
I'm a writer, and have been ever since I watched my father deface is books with a pen and highlighter, underlining and calling attention to the words that he would then respond to on his yellow legal pad. I have no idea what he wrote, but since then, stories and the lure of empty notebooks, have always called to me, and many times, saved me.
Writing my first installment of Memoirs of a Mom released a part of me I thought I needed to keep buttoned up, and for the fist time, I walked into the parenting world shirtless, tired, and with my heels slung over my shoulder. I didn't want another child psychologist telling me how to gentle-parent my screaming toddler. I wanted a solder, another battle-tested mom, to grab me by the heart and tell me this shit sucks, and damn is it hard. I didn't need more skills, I needed a break. I needed to stop pretending my idea of parenting was anywhere close to reality. I needed to laugh, to bring levity to the poopy pants, the carseat covered in popcorn, and the insanity of convincing a two-year-old a deep breathe is better than a 30 minute tantrum. I needed stories, from the trenches. I needed other moms, with snot on their faces and food on their clothes, armed with almond milk and carrot sticks, when the enemy approaches.
These, are our Momoirs. The Memoirs of a Mom.
"Motherhood isn't just hard. It's an excavation of who we really are, and finding out she is actually very messy and unprepared."
You're not alone (unless you want to be).
Parenting is hard, I know, it's hard for me too.
You don't want to mom every minute of the day? Guess what? Me either.
Put down your concealer, and that Pinterest bored on sensory bins, and welcome to a moment of hilarious, painful, and raw motherhood. I'll do the heavy lifting, all you need to do is hide in the pantry and eat something you don't feel like sharing.