I thought you were “the one.” I even told my friends about you. I looked up to you, and everything I thought you were, and looked forward to being just like you. It just didn’t work out. We’re done.
I do not wear perfectly curated workout outfits to pickups. I thought I’d be like you, the mom who posts videos of herself doing yoga while her baby lovingly terrorizes the dog just out of frame. Turns out my FitBit barely has any steps to actually calculate.
Instead of the locally sourced produce-portraits I expected to serve up for dinner, our menu often consists of ice cream sundaes and cheddar bunny appetizers. I secretly—not so secretly—love when a dino nugget gets thrown my way so I can eat it while I’m “doing the dishes.”
Just kidding, I don’t do the dishes every night.
Boy, I bet that bothers you.
Sometimes we watch the same movie four times in a row. I always thought we’d be memorizing flashcards instead of favorite characters. I wear the same mascara from 6th grade, and sometimes I let our son leave the house in two different shoes. I ask for help when I need it. I know you think that’s a sign of weakness. I’m guilty of mindlessly scrolling on social media instead of reading storybooks. We’ve missed Mommy and Me classes to stay in our pajamas. None of this was supposed to happen.
I yell. Gosh, sometimes I yell. I know this wasn’t part of the plan. I cry immediately after…and for the rest of the day. All the webinars and plans of redirecting just do not hack it sometimes, I get caught up, and I yell. I bet you’d never do that. I cry, and I always hug that baby tight, especially on the hard days.
The 2020 planner I insisted on buying on Instagram doesn’t even have our birthdays jotted down. But we’re living it. Every moment and memory made so far this year has not been scheduled. They were created in the chaos of everyday, and the nights we stayed up past bedtime.
I would love to have a well balanced diet and boobs.
But I do, indeed, eat the food that stains my shirt. And breastfeed. There’s a lot of breastfeeding going on. Still.
That is it. I’m breaking up with you. I’m not you, the “mama I thought I should be.” I’m his. I’m his mama and there is no other type of mama I could ever dream of being. Sometimes the days are long and the nights are longer. Sometimes I cry more than him, and there are days neither of us make it into the tub. Sometimes I think I’m doing it all wrong.
But we laugh hard, and love harder.
I’m exactly the mom he needs me to be, and nothing could have prepared me for how much I needed him.
Not even the idea of being you.
Goodbye. Goodbye to comparisons. See ya later, impossible expectations. I’m so done feeling like I’m falling short in a fantasy I created myself. It’s not me…it’s you.