The post I Didn’t Have Kids to Become a Sitcom Mom. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

The post Being Your Mother Is the Hardest, Best Thing I’ll Ever Do. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I know people mean well when they say the “baby phase” goes quickly.

I know they mean to both remind parents with little kids to seek out daily joy and also to provide comfort by pointing out that these particular hardships won’t last.

But …

These difficulties will turn into new ones. Kids, and people, will always face adversity in life, just like there’s always something special and wondrous present in each day.

But when we’re inside of this space with little kids — having to choose between spending time with our spouse and getting enough sleep; fighting little people to put on pants; showing them how to go to the bathroom in the potty while simultaneously never getting to use the bathroom alone ourselves ― it’s easy to offer tidy, pretty statements like “enjoy it” without genuinely offering worthwhile help or guidance.

Life isn’t always neat and tidy. Usually it’s not. Parenthood, of all life’s experiences, easily offers the most daunting responsibility, sheer happiness, and challenge.

Of course we know it “won’t last forever.” We know, too, our kids will grow and we’ll miss these days when they were so fully dependent on us. For me, this awareness amplifies these feelings of frustration and stress rather than alleviating them.

Right now I’m trying to get my toddler out of the house for an errand, and my 2-year-old won’t put on pants.

She. Will. Not. Put. On. Pants.

I’m close to giving up and letting her run pants-less around the house instead.

And it’s funny, isn’t it? This image of a grown-ass woman struggling to get clothes on a child? You have to laugh. I have to laugh. But still, the word “struggling” best describes how I feel in this moment.

I inhale deeply, and walk away from my toddler sitting on the living room carpet in only a diaper. I walk away. I remind myself she’s asserting her independence, and how I react to this assertion sets up not only the theme of our parent-child relationship, but how she learns to have disagreements with the world around her.

I’m not a good example most of the time ― that’s how it feels.

It feels like I yell, and I never wanted to be the parent that yells, yet here I am doing exactly this sometimes. It feels like I don’t have patience. It feels like I’m not doing a good enough job as a mom.

But I know I am. And I have to keep looking for where I shine as often and as freely as I look for where I need to improve.

I know that people mean well when they say things like “The baby phase doesn’t last forever” or “It goes so fast.” Perhaps the better words to share, though, are simply: “You’re doing a great job.”

The post People Mean Well When They Say the ‘Baby Phase’ Goes Fast, But… first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

She sits in my lap and we read this same book three times in a row. Each time we finish it, she says, “Again.”

My throat feels dry. My head aches dully. I want a sip of water. I read the book again; we get to the end, and her little voice says, “Again.”

I put the book down and she cries. Her cry gets louder, and my headache becomes momentarily sharper. I tell her Mommy needs something to drink.

The truth is that even though this day is coming to a close, I haven’t fully woken up. The truth is that this book isn’t really that cute. The truth is I know she wants to read, but I have a billion other grown-up things I feel like I should do.

After drinking some water, I decide to return to the couch, where she still sits holding her book and whimpering. She climbs back into my lap.

Her big sister, home from school, leaves the TV show she was watching, and curls up next to me. I cover her feet and legs with a blanket, too, and squeeze a girl’s hand in each of mine. We read the same story together again, and then they temporarily leave my side to get more books.

We sit intertwined like this—reading, and holding hands, and snuggling—for about 15 minutes.

Dinner still needs to be made.

The kitchen is filled with both clean dishes that need to be put away and dirty ones that need washing.

I still have to make my oldest’s lunch for school tomorrow.

Both of my kids should probably have a bath.

For 15 minutes, I ignore all of this and instead bury myself inside of the softest part of being a mother—that special place where there’s only me with my children, holding hands and being together.

The dishes can wait 15 minutes.

Starting dinner can wait for 15 minutes.

Packing a school lunch can be done in 15 minutes.

Everything can be put on hold for this tiny span within my life, but if I get up and walk away to do these chores weighing on my grown-up mind, and come back only a minute later to say, “Ah, never mind kids, let’s read a bit,” more often than not they’ve found another little kid interest and have moved on.

And I’m left standing in the doorway alone, wishing I’d sat down for just 15 minutes.

The post It’s Just 15 Minutes to a Grown-Up, but Not to Kids. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

My kids—gloriously, wondrously, delightfully—think I’m cool.

I dyed my hair blue nearly a year ago, and recently I transitioned it to purple. My 6-year-old wasn’t annoyed or embarrassed, like maybe she could have been in another decade. Instead, she picked out purple glasses to match my hair, and told me that now all she needs is purple hair to match.

Then, when I, too, chose new glasses for myself—purple and like hers—she was beyond ecstatic to be Matchy-Matchy with Mommy. Because I’m still cool.

I’m aware it won’t always be like this. There will be, minimally, a stretch of years in high school where Mom will be anti-cool. I’m not prepared for it, so much as expecting it.

In the meanwhile, I want to do these 75 things—while I still easily can.

1. Let them in. Let them know and understand who I am, so they hopefully reciprocate as they grow.

2. Cover their soft skin in kisses.

3. Hold them when they cry.

4. Teach them to breathe through emotions that feel too big to handle.

5. Play dolls.

6. Color instead of doing the housework, at least from time to time.

7. Really listen to them when they talk to me, because even the most seemingly small stories they share often have pieces of who they are growing up to be buried inside.

8. Let them practice yoga with me when they want to, even if it means I physically get less out of it.

9. Slow down and let them walk.

10. Teach them to ask for help.

11. Teach them they can do so much on their own.

12. Let them wear the tutu over the sweatpants, even if I think it looks ridiculous.

13. Let them buy a shirt from the boy/girl section so they learn to appreciate their own and others’ gender fluidity.

14. Help them see the fun of rainy days.

15. Put my phone down and look them in the eyes when they talk to me, so I can expect this from them later.

16. Teach them manners, so they can show respect for others and themselves.

17. Laugh at their silly jokes.

18. Remember they are not me.

19. Read tons of books with them.

20. Help with puzzles, even though I’ve never liked puzzles.

21. Say “no” when it needs to be said, even if it’s harder for me in the moment.

22. Say “yes” when it needs to be said, even if it’s harder for me in the moment.

23. Play in the snow.

24. Jump through the sprinkler.

25. Never make them kiss and hug anyone so they learn who is in charge of their bodies—themselves.

26. Enjoy, as much as possible, my constant bathroom companions while they still love my company so much, I can’t even go to the bathroom alone.

27. Sing along to their favorite songs with them since right now they think Mommy has the prettiest voice.

28. Never dismiss what they like, even if it’s “Caillou.”

29. Show them we all have bad days, but that a bad day doesn’t equal a bad life.

30. Show them to look for the hidden happiness that exists within every ordinary day.

31. Watch them dance, and wiggle and move to music in that open way only little kids can.

32. Dance with them.

33. Teach them to work with what they’ve got, not against it. (Like my daughter’s curly hair, for example.)

34. Be positive about my own body with them.

35. Teach them to use the correct words for body parts—like vagina, penis and breasts—instead of crude, or cute, nicknames.

36. Help make potentially stressful mornings of getting everyone ready for the day in a short period of time feel fun and productive by shouting “We did it!” together.

37. Support my husband’s parenting in front of them.

38. Let them remind me how the simplest of life’s experiences—like watching the sun rise from between the trees while we wait for the school bus—becomes incredible with a fresh perspective.

39. Crouch down next to my toddler to watch her be fascinated by a bug.

40. Be a safe place for them.

41. Dress up on Halloween.

42. Get excited about the holidays—remember to share in their enthusiasm rather than seeing the ways holidays can be difficult for adults.

43. Appreciate our differences.

44. Take charge of my own feelings by, for instance, saying “I’m so mad” instead of “You’re making me so mad.”

45. Value kindness.

46. Dye my hair purple. Even though I’m 37. Show them how to take care of our individuality while respecting society as a whole.

47. Celebrate every single birthday.

48. Celebrate every single new laugh line.

49. Stop and look into their eyes and always be appreciative that I get to share their childhoods with them.

50. Maintain my own interests and hobbies as much as possible so they learn to prioritize both self-care and hard work.

51. Show them some goals take daily effort and time to finish, like when I write books or when they practice new skills like reading and writing.

52. Show them where and how the world and people aren’t being treated equally, and teach them to believe we should feel a responsibility to help.

53. Teach them to care for our possessions, but not to place too much value in things.

54. Take time to hug.

55. Tell them how much I love being their Mommy.

56. Show them how much I love being their Mommy.

57. Occasionally take days “off” from social media—without grand announcements—to remember the importance and beauty of “real” life.

58. Eat the birthday cake.

59. Make new traditions for them and our family.

60. Pass down traditions that are meaningful to me.

61. Look with awe at the moon.

62. Be in awe of the seasons.

63. Never stop playing.

64. Expect them to explore their uncomfortable emotions, like anger and sadness.

65. Always have at least one “impossible” dream.

66. Always make a wish on the stars.

67. Celebrate others’ successes with them.

68. Teach our daughters how to admire the beauty of other women rather than be envious of them.

69. Remember what makes us uniquely beautiful, too.

70. Try to see their fears and joys from their youthful perspective and not my own experiences.

71. Teach them to value the strength of their own voices and to balance this with listening to others.

72. Remind them I love them and their company, but I am their parent.

73. Teach them how to disagree while being respectful.

74. Don’t keep everything special and fun for the weekend.

75. Be present with them when it’s hard, when it’s wonderful, and when it’s just another normal day with them while they’re still little.

The post 75 Things I’m Doing While My Kids Still Think I’m Cool. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

She smiled up at me. The sun hit her face, and half of it was white-lit, the other half shadowed and displaying the temporary tattoo we had given her for her second birthday.

The day wasn’t what I had imagined at all. It was a struggle. It was a typical day with little kids instead of a picturesque birthday one. My 6-year-old daughter had been almost more excited about her sister’s birthday than my toddler. They both woke up ready for “a party.”

But my now-2-year-old was fussy, and unhappy. (We think maybe she had a cold.)

My oldest was disappointed that the day didn’t contain anything over the top, aside from birthday cake and presents.

Mom guilt washed through me.

I felt emotionally crippled by the significance of my “baby” turning 2, by the remembrance of her birth and how not so far away it seemed, and by this somewhat panicky sensation that I was incapable of making a day special enough to celebrate how joyful this child’s addition to our family and to the world is.

I stuffed this feeling down, mostly.

I crammed it behind alternate too-bright smiles and a crinkled-with-stress forehead. I hushed it behind the gifts, the cuddles and even the one timeout we gave our birthday girl. I took my oldest to the grocery store ― just the two of us on an errand she loves, while my husband and the birthday girl stayed home. I wanted to warm the overall feel of our day.

The next day, the mom guilt still radiated through me.

I’m not someone who believes in, or gives time to, regrets ― thinking of how I would do things differently isn’t worthwhile. And yet: I couldn’t stop thinking of what I could have done differently to make my toddler’s birthday better.

My husband even commented the next day, as we sat together after the kids had gone to sleep, that mom guilt was obviously eating me. He never uses that term. He doesn’t usually comment on how I seem to feel either, but asks instead. It must have been obvious.

He doesn’t have the same guilt because he doesn’t have the same pressure. He’s equally a parent in our household ― he’s easily the better parent ― but it’s me who feels this thing, so appropriately named “mom guilt.”

Why do women feel this?

Why does it haunt us?

Why all this “mom guilt”?

Mothers are expected to fulfill so many roles, while also maintaining our own feminist independence. We attack women who are happy as stay-at-home moms. We feel sorry for women who don’t maintain their own self-care. We guilt women who are successful at work.

Societally, we want women who are strong and independent, yet who are also perfect mothers; who are sex goddesses ― but not too sexy, or sexual for self-pleasure.

We polarize women, and women buy into it, even in our most private emotions.

My husband has his own pressures, too. Our marriage is a modern one where we share household responsibilities and child care when we’re both at home. But it’s only me experiencing these waves of “mom guilt.”

My sadness over my last baby turning 2 hit me powerfully days after her actual birthday. I let myself cry over how I much I miss my oldest child when she’s at school all day, and how “before I know it” my brand-new 2-year-old will be at school, too. I let myself panic a little that I’m investing so much of my heart and self into these two children whom I’m raising to leave me.

For another day I felt pathetic, as the guilt left. I felt sad for myself that I’m pouring so much of me into these two people. I questioned if my passionate desire to be present in their childhoods meant I’m neglecting my own needs.

“Is this where the guilt comes from?” I wondered.

I turned this question over and over and over for another day. This is what I kept coming back to: I’m happy. I love my life. I love being absorbed in little-kid smiles, and school bus schedules, and squeezed-in moments for the “me” outside of the “mommy,” like when I get my hair colored or go out without my kids or husband for an afternoon.

The guilt comes from knowing I could always do better than I did, and caring enough to churn over where I can grow and better myself as a parent. The guilt is born from love, even if it’s not healthy, for me or my family.

After all of the overthinking, I let the guilt go.

I didn’t let it go by pretending it was gone and I didn’t have negative emotions in the first place. I acknowledged my guilt was real, and that it was definitely not my last time dealing with it. I chose to validate and respect the difficulty and significance of being a mother, combined with the complexity of being a living, breathing, imperfect person.

More, I reminded myself consciously that lifetimes aren’t made up of one day or one bad choice, or one argument.

Childhoods are made of parents trying their best, with love and attention, and apologies, and examples; they’re made up of little kids learning, and growing, and making their own mistakes.

I want to display to my daughters, especially, that a bad day doesn’t equal a bad life.

I want to show them we can have days, or even weeks, when we feel sad and life feels heavy, but that it moves and shifts and changes all of the time, and so do we.

Yesterday the sun was out and the air was unseasonably warm. My little girls and I sat outside after my oldest had arrived home from school. I watched them laugh and play and eat snacks at their plastic picnic bench. They looked happy.

I breathed in this contentment for when “mom guilt” shows up again at our house unexpectedly; for when I need a vision of how good my life really is, and how great of a mom I am.

The post Why All of This “Mom Guilt”? first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

The post Why I’m OK With Motherhood Being My Way Of Life. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I wish someone had told me having a second child was completely different than having my first. Sure, I was told this, but it was mostly about the physical challenges of juggling more than one child.

I was warned about things like “adjusting from one child to two is hard (but after that adding additional children to the family is a relative breeze).” I was told breastfeeding is different because we have another child who needs us and not as much time as we want to cuddle and nurse our new infant.

Less often did other mothers share with me the feelings they struggled with, that no one else saw—besides maybe in the form of under-eye circles, easy to pass off on lack of sleep—but that were at least an equal struggle to things like diapers and fatigue.

I want to share with you these feelings of mine:

I wish someone had told me to still buy that beautiful baby book, but that there’s a reason why nearly everyone I know with more than one child has primarily the first written in elaborate detail—or written in at all. I could have used the encouraging reminder that my celebrations of all my second child’s firsts were just as ecstatic and love-filled, although I documented them with less ease.

I figured out for myself, too, that “the village” will change and shift. Life, in general, always shifts and changes, especially when children are involved. My friendships became not less important, but even less accessible with two children than with one. It takes even more effort to stay in touch and plan get-togethers. I wish someone had shared their loneliness after having a second child with me so I felt less alone in feeling it myself after giving birth again.

I wish I had listened more closely when the people who love me told me I was as good of a mom with my second child as I was with my first. I wish I had believed myself when I knew I was raising her with the same passionate love and effort, even if I often felt not good enough. I wish someone had told me that adding to our family would be better than I could possibly have dreamed, while also being emotionally harder than I was prepared for.

I wish I had expected to have a fresh resurgence of the ugly sting of mother guilt as both my children got older, when I finally had to send my oldest off to school. My main happiness in my firstborn’s growing up—besides her own school-loving joy—was knowing I would have more time with my second born. But it’s still not the same. I can’t be too far from my daughter in kindergarten in case she would need me, so there will never be those multiple-hour-long drives to the grandparents’ house or all of the same “Mommy and Me” experiences I had with my first child. I wish I’d been more aware that truly every step with a second child is fresh, different and new.

My second child is every bit as new, fresh and beautiful to me. And it is different—she’s different; I’m different, too.

She still has all of me. She has my whole spirit infused into her growing up—this is the same as my first—and that’s where this abundance of mother guilt comes from—it comes from knowing we are putting everything we are and can be into this moment right here with our children, equally understanding we wish we could do more.

More than anything, I wish someone had told me I have the power to throw away this mother guilt. Moms seem to either deny its existence entirely, or wallow. I wish someone had told me to take in the realness of this feeling, and then throw it away.

I turn over this mother guilt in my heart, and then I discard it. I discard it because I don’t have any more energy or love to give than what I’m already giving. I throw away my internal nagging that I’m not being a “good enough” parent because the biggest part of me knows that I’m offering her all she knows and expects. (And it’s this fragile awareness that inspires us to want to give to capacity.)

I’m doing my best—I really am. We all are. Is it good enough? Hopefully. Will we mess up? Absolutely. I’m 100-percent positive I’ve screwed up with both kids, just like I’m sure I’ve done great things, too.

I choose to accept that I sometimes do wish I could be the exact same type of mom for my second child as I could with my first, but I also choose to own this hard-earned wisdom that there are significant benefits for my second child, too.

She has the benefit of my knowing myself as a mom. I’ve accepted with alternate frustration and grace both my capabilities and my limitations as a mother. I’m a more confident mom this second time around. I’ve learned, too, what to stress over and what to take in stride. I’ve learned to appreciate how fast babyhood leaves, how quickly toddlerhood arrives, and how precious, if exhausting, it really all is—and I’ve learned it in time to consciously remind myself to slow down and live abundantly right where I am.

I wish someone had told me that as unique and brand new as my second child is, I am reborn as a mother through her birth. I am forever different and newborn myself, and, just like with our children, there will be challenges and shining beauty in it.

And both of these girls, born four years apart, carry my heart—cheesy and true. (This I didn’t need to be told, having felt already the indescribable sensations of becoming a parent.) They hold me inside of them without even knowing, which is what makes parenting so special—we see these small people for exactly who they are, having dreams and fears for what they might be, while they are innocently ignorant (for a while at least, until they grow). And in that while, when my kids can see my flaws but can’t yet name them, I stand rooted for them—I stand solidly behind them, in that kind of love parents offer best.

Later, I’ll let them know I’m more than aware of what I’ve done right and wrong in their lives. I’ll hope they’ll listen to me when I offer that life isn’t this black and white, or right and wrong, and that the miraculous thing about love is that we are so filled with it that we have enough for everyone in our lives we want to share it with.

The real reason I wish someone had shared some of this with me isn’t because I didn’t expect it—it’s not because I was unaware I would be a different parent with a different child at a different time in my life. Instead, what I really could have used is another loving voice gently nudging my heart with her whisper that a lot of the feelings I struggled with were normal, and OK.

Because my children are both loved, and not equally, but individually. Uniquely.

The post What I Wish Someone Had Shared With Me About Having a Second Child first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I cuddle and hold her and for this one moment in our entire day she seems like a tiny girl again. She tries so hard to be a big girl, like her big sister. She is a big girl—and then she asks me to nurse.

Hearing an almost-2-year-old ask to nurse is possibly the cutest thing ever. Sure, she doesn’t need my body for food, the way she did when I fed her as an infant. I try to show her also that we can snuggle, and that I can comfort her, without having to breastfeed. But she wants to nurse, and I want her to.

To be fair, she didn’t want to stop nursing during the day, but I forced it. It was sad at first, and upsetting for both of us, but she was showing signs that it was time to give it up, so I led her. Now, however, she still happily breastfeeds in the morning and at night. I know it’s not much, and even this will probably be given up soon, but she likes it and I do, too.

She’s my second child. I breastfed her big sister until she was over 2 as well. People don’t want to talk about breastfeeding toddlers, and I don’t think it’s completely a “taboo” thing, so much as most of the people I try to bring it up with just don’t do it. But I do—we do.

I breastfeed my toddler, in part, because I’m lucky enough to be able to. I’m overjoyed that we both took to nursing in the first place and that it’s something we’ve kept up. This once in the morning and once at night routine of ours is familiar and soothing for both of us, and yet it’s not as straightforward and “easy” to nurse a toddler.

I hold her and she sometimes kicks me in the throat, or she moves and wriggles. Occasionally she tries to sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” while nursing. Last night she insisted on putting a sock on as a glove before we had our nightly session. She has a mind of her own and, because of this, nursing an almost-2-year-old is nothing like nursing a smaller baby.

Nursing a toddler is nothing like nursing an infant. Instead, it’s special and awesome and wonderful in its own way.

More, as I get to the end of our experience—and as I recognize this might be the last time I breastfeed a child—I can’t help but reflect back on why exactly I’ve loved doing this for both of my children so much.

I’ve loved this connection—I’ve loved how special and unique it is with each of my daughters. In many ways their personalities are nothing alike, and nursing them has been completely different. I’ll admit I’ve loved being needed, especially as my toddlers grew and began to assert independence whenever possible–I’ve enjoyed being reminded I’m “Mom,” and I’m a necessary part of their lives.

This isn’t to say other moms who don’t nurse, much less into toddlerhood, are any less of a needed mother. It is to offer that many nursing moms feel excluded when we get in public and everyone’s pulling out bottles and snacks and we know what our babies want, and we either have to become OK with being—what feels like—confrontational, or we have to simply accept that we need to be brave, and loving.

In my house, it means I have a self-imposed curfew when I get invited out, but I need to be home to nurse my child. It means my family’s morning routine is centered around our children; on my oldest having to get to school and my toddler wanting to nurse when she wakes up. But this is my choice. I know I’m not alone in this choice.

It shouldn’t be confrontational or unusual to care for our children in the ways that work best for them and for us as parents. It shouldn’t feel so weird to talk about nursing my not-quite-2-year-old. It shouldn’t be strange, but often it is.

And the reason I breastfeed my toddler is simple—it’s because I love her. It’s because these waning moments in my day, when I hold her warm little body so close to mine, are ones I hope to hold inside of my mother breast long after they’re physically gone.

The post This Is Why I Breastfeed My Toddler. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Her face grips me and she’s not six years old, but two.

She’s only a toddler baby, and her expression is exactly the same as in this one right now—this older moment—but both are taking place in the bubble bathtub.

Motherhood really is hard as hell. The mother guilt is real. The “taking care of our relationship with my husband” difficulty is real. The jokes about needing wine and coffee are only half-jokes.

And I’m glad I didn’t know how hard it would be to have kids—I might not have had them.

I’m glad I didn’t know that kids don’t get on sleep “schedules” as easily as some articles and other parents want us to believe. I’m glad I didn’t know my patience would be tried, at times, beyond anything I expected. I’m glad I didn’t know my previously accepted levels of self-awareness and all that I’ve learned about self-love would be challenged by this extraordinarily real mother guilt.

And then it all washes away with the soapy water she’s dumping down her back via a cup from her tea set; how my abdomen looks, or how much (or how little) I get to workout, or how rarely I go to the bathroom alone, or how I wish I could have more of those cute date nights with my husband—it all leaves me. It vanishes with this vision of her gentle face close to mine as I watch her play with her bath toys.

I get this sudden urge to want to go back in time and cradle my daughter’s infant body, without worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet, or would never happen. But I can’t. So I reach out and touch her six-year-old one gratefully.

I want to go back and remind my new-mother self to sleep and rest and not waste so much energy wondering what tomorrow will bring. But I can’t. So I care for myself as best as I can now.

I want to go back and kiss my husband more than I’m sure I did. I want to tell myself, in these early stages of learning how to be both a wife and a mom, that his love is still a priority and not to dismiss our relationship because our baby needs me. But I can’t. So I kiss him and hold him, and try to balance loving so many special people at once.

I want to go back and tell first-time mother me that I don’t need to “get anything back.” But I can’t, so I smile at the way my belly button looks a little different after having two kids. I let myself accept I’m beautiful and blessed by my body’s evolution.

I want to go back and tell second-time mom me it’s impossible to give this new baby the exact amount of attention I did my first, but that this doesn’t mean I love her any less. But I can’t, so I hold my second born, and I show her love in every way I’m able.

I want to go back and stop what I’m doing when my daughters wanted to play. I want to go back and let the dishes sit in soapy water and stop working more often than I know I did and just play dolls. But I can’t. So I try to when they ask me to now.

I want to go back and tell myself I did everything right the first time. I always did the best I could, even if I would do things differently through the gloss of time and perspective. But I can’t, so I hold space for myself in all that I do well, and in all that I might fruitlessly wish I could do better.

I want to tell all of the mothers out there they’re loved and that at least a few of the most important people in the world to them are witnesses to everything they do with love and care. I want to tell these other women to stop and simply admire and appreciate this one-of-a-kind world they have created inside of their homes.

I can’t go back in time and make sure I took in each and every child’s smile, hug or milestone, but the beauty of life, and of love and relationships, is that there is always more to look forward to—there is always more to enjoy today.

I watch my six-year-old eagerly start kindergarten. I see my toddler shift slowly into being a little girl. I observe both how much awaits us, as well as how much we already have, right here.

My coffee might usually sit cold because there’s a school bus to catch, or a diaper to change,and my house might always be messy, but these joys surrounding us are abundant. Having kids is hard. I really am glad I didn’t know how hard it would be, and I’m even more glad I can’t go back and do things over, because how things have been done has led us to where we are.

Where we are is as sacred as holding a newborn, and every other landmark that has graced my life. This day with my lukewarm coffee, my little girls fighting, my husband and I trying to kiss as my toddler steps in between our legs—these are all ordinary things I’ll one day look back on with as much fondness as I do those years that have already flooded by.

And motherhood is hard—it’s hard as hell. But this period of my life has shaped me more than any other. I’ve learned more about what love is, what sacrifices are, and I’ve been the recipient of more love and wonderment than I ever could have imagined before having children.

I can’t go back in time. I can’t relive my life or have do-overs—I don’t want to. Because I can look in the eyes of this six-year-old who calls me “Mom” and loves me, I can love her and her little sister with every drop of my soul, and I can feel how this gratitude fills my chest.

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