Writing and Motherhood | Jennifer S. White

It’s Been a Long Day (but Too Short Before Goodnight).

Jennifer — Sun, 19 Mar 2017 19:04:49 +0000

It’s been a long day.

Can you see me?

I know your shoes and coat are wet from the rain; I can see you’re trying not to make tracks on the kitchen floor.

It’s been a long day.

Was it a good one?

You’ve been so busy, and I’ve felt jealous of your work; even if it’s not another person; even if it’s not your first choice.

It’s been a long day.

I’m tired.

I didn’t mean to barely say “Hello” as you came in. I meant to hug you hard and kiss you gently.

It’s been a long day.

Can you hear me?

Can you hear my heart pound because it needs yours pressed to it, in between the child’s cries and my rattling off what we need to do for dinner?

It’s been a long day.

I want to hear about it.

I want to listen as you explain to me what you’ve worked on, what frustrated you, or what kept you away from eating the lunch you put back into the fridge.

It’s been a long day.

I want to talk to you.

I want to say more than “She needs this for school tomorrow” or “I have an appointment this week.”

It’s been a long day.

Can we dance together?

Can we shift our bodies towards each other, instead of shuffling out of one another’s way as we cook and pack lunches?

It’s been a long day.

Can I touch you?

Can I nibble your ear a little too aggressively—where the kids won’t see—and then I’ll drift back to grabbing a cutting board, like you don’t want to move into the bedroom?

It’s been a long day.

Please look at me.

Please see who I still am, beneath these layers of responsibilities and roles that I’ve cloaked myself in—that cushion me from you.

It’s been a long day.

I hope it’s not over?

After our kids go to bed, and our own eyes are heavy, will you stay up with me?

It’s been a long day, my love.

(But too short before our “Goodnight.”)

The post It’s Been a Long Day (but Too Short Before Goodnight). first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I Wouldn’t Want To Be Here With Anyone Else but You

Jennifer — Sat, 18 Mar 2017 13:27:16 +0000

I tell you I love you, but it’s as if you don’t believe me.

Maybe it’s because I woke you up this morning, barking a list of things we needed to do immediately so our daughter wouldn’t be late for school. Maybe it’s because sometimes I pull away too quickly when you try to hug me. Maybe it’s because saying “I love you” isn’t good enough.

Lately, it has to be.

Our time together is unbelievably limited; OK, believably limited for other parents of small kids with these “busy” lives we all seem to lead.

Our time together is Netflix; and quickies; and sipping wine when we’re exhausted, but the kids are finally in bed. Our time together is weekends that go too quickly and whiny grocery store trips. Our time together is less and less about “us” and increasingly more about everything else.

Our “us” is the most important thing to me.

Our “us” is different than it once was, and not always “good different,” I know; but our relationship is the most valuable aspect of my life.

Our “us” is why we have these small children—we wanted to raise a family together; we wanted to bring more love into our already full-of-love closeness. We did. These two new, tiny people did bring so much more love into our daily lives; yet there’s also significantly more responsibility, and there are more roles we now have to play.

We play not only wife and husband, scientist and writer, cyclist and yoga instructor; we play, too, these all-consuming roles of Mom and Dad, and we love it. And I wouldn’t want to be here—experiencing these parts and pieces of our lives—with anyone else but you.

I want more of you.

I, too, want more sex—I want more making love. I want more date nights, and late nights, and groggy morning-breath moments in bed before we have to get up. (I want more time with you in a bed without children.)

To be fair, I miss me also. I don’t get enough time alone, much less enough time together. But I love this life we’ve created; and our family, and everything we’ve evolved into and effortfully—lovingly—built.

Still, I don’t want our “together” to feel so far apart.

I tell you “I love you” and I know it isn’t good enough. Words are special, especially to a writer, but they can never be enough all by themselves. Instead, we need time off work and people to watch our kids, and, essentially, luxuries we don’t often have.

You always have me.

You have always had me.

You will always have me.

“I love you” doesn’t give to you what I wish it did. But I say it anyway, so that in between the childcare to-dos—the laundry lists of…laundry; the pick-ups and drop-offs; and appointments; and bedtimes; and coffees; and goodnight kisses—you know I’m still here.

Seeing you.

Wanting you.

Needing you.

Offering everything I am and have to you.

And loving you as best as I’m able to right now; right here; where we are—together.

The post I Wouldn’t Want To Be Here With Anyone Else but You first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I Didn’t Have Kids to Become a Sitcom Mom.

Jennifer — Sun, 12 Mar 2017 13:47:50 +0000

I didn’t have kids so I could yell at them to pick up toys, and books, and to put on their shoes before the school bus comes.

I didn’t have kids so I could be a rule enforcer; a disciplinarian; a giver of timeouts.

I had kids to build blanket forts with, to hug, to read to, to snuggle with, and nurture, and love. I had kids to share my life with, and create a family with, and be here for.

Being here for you means sometimes being the bitch.

Being a good mom means sometimes feeling like a bad one.

Being the mom I always dreamt I would be means also being the mom every child rolls their eyes at and hates for a week, or a month, or a year.

I didn’t have kids to become a caricature, though. I don’t want you to think of me as you grow and mostly remember these parental attributes that make me feel unlovable. I don’t want you to remember Mommy lost her temper because the house was a wreck—again; I want you to remember I bought all these toys in the first place so we could play with them, together.

I want you to remember my voice making ridiculously bad character accents as I read over the tops of your downy hair; I want your perfectly imperfect memory to be that I was good at it and made your stories come to life as we sat cuddled on the red couch.

I want you to remember how we played dolls, before I got upset when you wouldn’t help pick up.

I want you to know I know how awful I can be sometimes, and that more than doing my best, I scold myself more harshly than you ever could for any loss of temper, any hugs left behind to dishes, and every second I miss of your childhood because I was “busy” being a grown-up instead.

I want you to think I’m the best mom ever, even when I’m not, because all moms want this. I want you to see how much I love your dad, even when I’m tired and grumpy by the time he gets home from work. I want you to feel the love that built this family and our home, even when this big-people stress you feel but don’t yet understand hangs next to your baby pictures.

The truth is, I didn’t have kids to turn into the sitcom mom everyone laughs at and kind of loves and kind of hates. But I did. The truth is, when we dream of having kids, we have no idea what we’re dreaming of.

It’s better than in my dreams.

The way my heart fills up when you call me “Mama”; this tenderness that spills soft tears from my eyes when I see you blow out birthday candles; this passion I feel as I want to both protect you from the world’s inevitable harm and help you navigate it, too—these real-life experiences are better than this writer’s imagination of what I thought being a mom would feel like. These real-life moments of raising you and watching you grow are also more painful, hard, and demanding than I could have predicted.

I want you to grow up thinking you had the best mom, but that’s not what I want the most.

What I need is for you to grow up knowing how completely—and earnestly—you are loved.

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

Being Your Mother Is the Hardest, Best Thing I’ll Ever Do.

Jennifer — Fri, 03 Feb 2017 14:09:27 +0000

I remember the day I had you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago.

I remember the second night with you in the hospital. Your dad had gone home to help your older sister get to sleep. He’d stayed as late as he could. My mom came in his place and slept on the hard, fake leather sofa in our room. She slept, but I didn’t. You didn’t. (You were a newborn baby after all—who would expect you to?)

I laid there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half reclined-half sitting up position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.

Could I handle more years of sleepless infant nights?

Could I handle two small children by myself when your dad went back to work?

Could I be a good enough mother?

The answer to all of these questions was, “No.”

The truth was it would be hard. The reality is I called your dad at work several times a day crying. The brutal fact is I’m so flawed, as a person and as a mom.

But I didn’t make a mistake.

And now you’re two, and I already know why they say things like, “It won’t last forever,” or, “Don’t be the first to let go when your child hugs you.” I understand, too, that I’m not a good enough mother, but I’m what you’ve got.

I’m not in awe of you enough. I’m not always happy just sitting together and reading books. Sometimes I want to read on my phone instead. Sometimes I do.

But these days with tiny-you—even our hardest ones—are always my best.

Still, it hits me every night as bedtime approaches. Waves of our day’s moments when I could have been more present—when I should have reacted differently; when I needed to stop my own thoughts and be more available within yours—crash into me and it hurts. It hurts because I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry for sometimes wishing bedtime would come sooner. I’m not sorry for wanting desperately to just sit on the couch, alone. But what hurts is knowing each of these moments quickly add up, as I see your tiny face grow into more of a little girl and so much less of a toddler.

What hurts is witnessing how each day you need me less and less, and each day I have to let go a little bit more.

What hurts is knowing these minutes of you clinging to me, and needing me, for nearly everything are becoming fewer and fewer, until one day, you’ll be left to choose how much of your time is spent with me.

What hurts is wondering if you’ll feel how infinitely I love you despite my marred humanness.

I remember the day I had you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago. Before I know it, it will be twenty.

Before I know it, I won’t remember it as clearly.

Before I know it, I’ll be an older, wiser mother annoying new mothers with “how fast it goes.”

Before I know it, my memories of your babyhood will be what I hold closely instead of your tiny hand.

Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ve ever done. Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ll ever do.

I laid there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half reclined-half sitting up position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.

I didn’t. You remind me of this every day.

Every time your shining blue eyes twinkle at mine in a giggle, or your angry brow furrows in my direction, I see who I’ve made, and I know of the many, many mistakes I have and will make, their best correction will always be you.

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Marriage Isn’t Over After Kids.

Jennifer — Wed, 25 Jan 2017 17:28:02 +0000

After the kids go to bed, it’s our only real time together.

We pry our own sleepy eyes open and hold hands while watching TV. We make love when we’re exhausted, because it’s our one chance.

He kisses me as he goes out the door to work every morning. We text “I love you” during the day. Sometimes we text angry things we didn’t get to finish talking about before our coffees were finished; before it was time to shower and get dressed for our days spent largely apart.

I stay home with our kids, and this beloved role sometimes feels like it consumes me—I admit it. I love being a mom. I hate being a mom sometimes, too. It’s complex, just like my children—just like people—are, but it’s everything I dreamed it would be, and it’s a billion other things I didn’t expect or wouldn’t choose.

But my marriage is far from over, and our “us” isn’t resigned to past tense.

We do share a history—most couples do. Most couples have a story of their own special romance hidden inside of the 9 to 5, dinner-making, and school bus meeting; tucked inside of a peck of a kiss we wish lasted longer; buried beneath laundry piles.

I admit to wanting a future with more of “us” waiting before the sunset.

I want to know in my heart our kids will only be little for so long, so we’ll cherish and nurture this gentle space in their lifetimes, where we get to be parents, and partners, and a family. I do believe this, but I know also life can be unfair.

I don’t want to save our “us” for someday.

I don’t want to pause our romance for tomorrow.

I don’t want to wait for the weekends to hold a kiss.

We try to fit our “us” into our Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. We try to be the people who met, fell in love, and had children, before finding our love story placed haphazardly underneath a stack of our daughter’s school papers. We try to, but the reality is that life and love are different when you are sleep-deprived, loving parents to small kids.

Sitters can’t come often enough.

“Date night” can’t be frequent enough.

These two hours we have before finally crashing at night can never be exactly the same as “before,” when we lazily lounged in bed on Saturday mornings instead of helping tiny people use the toilet right away.

I don’t want it to be the same, but I do want more of him, and more of “us.”

I try to hold that kiss as he walks out the door in the morning, while I’ve already embraced a billion other to-dos. (I try to stay here with him, and kiss.)

I try to show my daughters who I am, outside of and intertwined with being their “Mommy.” I try to be a person, and a woman, and their daddy’s best friend, and a wife.

I try to laugh with him while we cook dinner, instead of frowning because he didn’t place a bowl where I think it should go in the dishwasher. I try to enjoy these moments we do have together, even when they don’t feel like enough.

I try to show him I love him. I try to show him I still need his love.

My marriage is far from over. Although, at times, we feel more like roommates than the pair who fell in love. But we aren’t roommates—and if we’re soulmates, it’s irrelevant—because what I really need him to know is that I choose him over and over again every day.

I choose him with each peck on the cheek as he rushes out the door.

I choose him with every second I stay awake instead of collapsing into bed.

I choose him, over and over again—but sometimes it needs to be said.

The people we love deserve to be told how much we appreciate them, as often and as freely as it is easy to complain or nitpick. The people we love deserve the best of us. The people we share our lives with every single day need to at least occasionally be reminded we’re here because we chose it.

Every day our kids grow, shape-shift, and age in ways that are both obvious and less defined. Every day my husband and I inch closer to each other, without a child stepping in between our legs as we hug. Every day our marriage is different, in ways that are positive as well as challenging.

Early this morning, I stood with our toddler in the kitchen.

Her big sister had left for school. Her daddy had left for work. We stood together, and she told me she was a “little big girl” because she’s a big girl, but she isn’t big enough yet to get her own breakfast.

Before we both know it, she’ll be less of a “little big girl” and more of a “big girl.”

Before we both know it, she’ll be less of a “girl.”

Before we both know it, she’ll have to reminded she was once my “little big girl.”

It’s not sad, necessarily, it’s just true. It’s beautiful, really. It’s metamorphosis. It’s transition. It’s growth. It’s change. It’s death. It’s life.

And my marriage isn’t over, and it hasn’t stalled. It’s been gifted with rebirth.

I have only to open my sleepy mother-eyes wide enough to witness it.

The post Marriage Isn’t Over After Kids. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I’ve Been That Mom.

Jennifer — Wed, 11 Jan 2017 23:29:39 +0000

I’ve been the mom who wrote and wrote, and worked and worked, just to prove to myself that I could still “do it all.”

I’ve been the mom who wrote and wrote, and worked and worked because I wanted to.

I’ve been the mom holding the weight of so much responsibility for tiny little people that I felt I couldn’t handle even one more ounce.

I’ve been the mom who felt like Superwoman, moving through motherhood effortlessly.

I’ve been the mom with bags under my eyes and never enough coffee in the world to make up for my lack of sleep.

I’ve been the mom who slept well for several nights in a row and felt like I could do anything.

I’ve been the mom whose heart broke when I saw my little girl in pain.

I’ve been the mom who felt like the luckiest woman on the planet because she got to witness her little girl’s joy.

I’ve been the mom who felt less like a wife and more like a roommate.

I’ve been the mom who fell back in love over and over again with the man I chose to have my kids with.

I’ve been the mom who’s envious of other mothers who made it look easy while I struggle.

I’ve been the mom who held onto my guilt until I sobbed it out unexpectedly in the car when a certain song came on my radio.

I’ve been the mom who laughed until my stomach hurt, because having little kids is so hilarious.

I’ve been the mom who screamed until my throat hurt, because having little kids is so hard.

I’ve been the mom who wanted a baby while it seemed like everyone else on Facebook had them already.

I’ve been the mom who didn’t think I could handle two kids, but I tried anyway and had a second daughter.

I’ve been the mom who’s wondered if I would do it all over again if I knew how much more difficult being a parent is than I truly ever did imagine.

I’ve been the mom who answered, “No, I wouldn’t.”

I’ve been the mom who answered, “Oh, hell yes; a million times again.”

I’ve been the mom who wasted an afternoon of my child’s life on Twitter just to mentally escape my living room.

I’ve been the mom who wasted a night of sleep wishing I could have that afternoon back.

I’ve been the mom who made my kids giggle.

I’ve been the mom who said the wrong thing and apologized.

I’ve been the mom who kisses and cuddles and snuggles and rocks to sleep.

I’ve been the mom who scolds and demands and teaches manners.

I’ve been the mom I always wished I could be.

I’ve been the mom I always hoped I’d be better than.

I’ve been the mom who fell to her knees and asked God to make me better at my role.

I’ve been the mom who lifted my hands to the sky in praise for this life I feel fortunate to live.

I’ve been the mom who worried.

I’ve been the mom who reads.

I’ve been the mom who put on Band-Aids.

I’ve been the mom who didn’t catch them in time.

I’ve been the mom who had to let them fall and get back up on their own.

I’ve been the mom who tries and tries.

I’ve been the mom who takes it easy.

I’ve been the mom who lets myself go through motherhood as best as I can, and as well as I’m able to navigate.

I’ve been the mom who wished I had a better map.

I’ve been the mom who knows my kids love me.

I’ve been the mom who knows my kids are furious at me.

I’ve been the mom who felt ignored.

I’ve been the mom who felt smothered.

I’ve been the mom who sees the love behind their eyes at night just before they close them.

I’ve been the mom still holding them when they wake up.

I’ve been the mom who understands I’ll always be a mom, just not to little kids.

I’ve been the mom who knows this won’t last forever.

(I’ve been the mom who feels like this frustrating moment does last forever, too.)

I’ve been the mom who’s told other moms they’re doing a great job.

I’ve been the mom who wanted to hug another mom in Target when her kid was screaming and she looked like she wanted to fall through the floor.

I’ve been the mom who loves myself outside of motherhood.

I’ve been the mom with needs.

I’ve been the mom who feels selfish.

I’ve been the mom who feels like a martyr.

I’ve been the mom consumed by it.

I want to be the mom I already am.

I want to see the mom standing right here.

I want to tell her she’s good enough, exactly as she is.

The post I’ve Been That Mom. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

12 Hilarious Truths of Raising Kids.

Jennifer — Tue, 13 Dec 2016 15:56:25 +0000

Having kids is beautiful, difficult and, at times, hilarious—if you keep your sense of humor handy.

12 Truths of raising kids:

1. Everything is “mine” to a toddler, except the huge messes they make.

Then they just stare like it’s something they’ve never seen before.

2. Parents are destined to repeat themselves for all eternity.

Except for cuss words. Kids listen and repeat those immediately.

3. Your parenting ideals will change.

My goals for my kids before I had them: teach them Spanish, only use positive reinforcement, never yell.

After: Get them to put on pants.

4. The rewards and challenges are unparalleled.

My kids are the cutest, sweetest assholes I know.

5. You’re expectations will lower, especially on the weekends when all you want to do is relax.

Lower.

Looower.

Yes. Right there.

6. You’ll continually reach new levels of parenting.

Like when I understood why my dad called my sister and me “you people.”

7. Your coffee will never be strong enough.

For instance, I received a “may your coffee be stronger than your toddler” mug as a gift and, as it turns out, it should have come with a matching flask.

8. You’ll have empathy like never before.

Sometimes the only thing that gets me through a day is knowing that, clearly, it’s harder to be 2 than a 2-year-old’s mom, judging by her tantrums.

9. And you’ll experience love like never before.

Every. Single. Day. I think about how I love my kids so, so much they can’t even fathom it and I have to get away from them for at least 5 minutes or I’ll legit go insane.

10. You’ll communicate differently with your spouse.

Like when I say “Be right back.” But I actually mean “I’ll stay in the bathroom until I get hemorrhoids or our toddler stops screaming.” You know, whichever’s first.

11. You’ll become fiercely protective.

I love my kids so much that they have no idea what circus peanuts taste like.

12. You’ll never finish a thought.

Just now, my toddler crawled into my lap and said “I love you,” so, yeah, I totally forgot my joke.

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People Mean Well When They Say the ‘Baby Phase’ Goes Fast, But…

Jennifer — Sat, 03 Dec 2016 14:17:53 +0000

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.”

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It’s Just 15 Minutes to a Grown-Up, but Not to Kids.

Jennifer — Sat, 26 Nov 2016 15:51:02 +0000

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.

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75 Things I’m Doing While My Kids Still Think I’m Cool.

Jennifer — Sat, 19 Nov 2016 17:02:50 +0000

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.