CHAPTER 9

The Lie:

I’M NOT A GOOD MOM

If we’re going to talk about how much I struggled as a new mom, then we also have to talk about how much I have struggled as a mom in general. Navigating what it means to be a mother while dealing with a newborn baby is brutal . . . but what comes next?

That’s an emotional mind-screw of epic proportions.

When my oldest was seven, he crushed my soul over Cheerios.

“You know what you need, Mommy?” he asked me one morning while I was pouring cereal into a bowl shaped like a bulldog’s face.

When a child gives you an opener like that, the conversation could go in any direction imaginable. Maybe I needed a superhero cape or a new spatula or pink hair. His train of thought could go anywhere.

“What?” I wanted to know. “What do I need?”

“You need one of those necklaces with our initials on them. You know, the ones with the letters for each kid’s name?”

At the time monogram charm necklaces were all the rage.

“Yes, I know those necklaces.”

“You should get one of those. All the moms at my school have them,” he told me between bites. “You need to get one too.”

“Okay . . .” I was a bit confused. “Why do I need to get one?”

He smiled at me happily.

“So you can finally be like all the other moms.”

Finally.

Like all the other moms.

A handful of words shouldn’t crush you—shouldn’t make you question yourself as a mother. But when you’re already questioning yourself, and then someone—not just your son but anyone—brings up the exact thing you’ve been worried about, it doesn’t really take much to push you over the edge.

I hadn’t worried about what my jewelry—or lack thereof—said about me as a mom, but I was glaringly aware of how different I was from the other mothers at Jackson’s school events. I just didn’t know that he’d noticed as well.

I grappled with his statement for days . . . His suggestion to be like all the other moms meant that he recognized I wasn’t like them already. It meant that he saw me as different—and when you’re little, all you really want is to be just like everybody else.

What he noticed is that I’m not like the other moms because I work . . . a lot. I very rarely get to drop him off at school or pick him up. Because of that, I made a special effort to volunteer in his classroom every other week—but that wasn’t right either, because even though I sat in the teeny tiny chair cutting papers and stuffing homework folders like the other volunteers, I wasn’t in jeans or yoga pants. I was in high heels and a white blazer that I should have known better than to wear on the day they were making teepees out of brown modeling clay. (Another mom was sure to point that out to me.) I was wearing that outfit because directly following that session at school I was heading to a meeting. Like most working moms, my life is a constant juggling act.

Sometimes it looks like a perfectly orchestrated ballet where I’m able to flit back and forth between the kids’ activities and work activities. Other times it looks like a triage unit where I’m doing everything I can to keep up with the need around me and yet still dropping the ball on priorities that feel like they are slipping away before I can get to them.

At the time I hoped that committing to extra projects for my boys would make up the difference. So I’d overwhelm an already overwrought schedule by agreeing to plan the big fund-raiser for their class, or being on the board at preschool, or taking off an afternoon to cover soccer practice. I thought the extra effort would win me brownie points with my boys, but it didn’t. My children were little, and their memory stretched only as far as yesterday. Even now they don’t care about today’s business trip, my looming book deadline, or the staff at my office who count on me to pull my weight. My kids care that their friends’ moms went on the museum field trip yesterday and I didn’t because I was flying to Chicago for work.

Having kids in school feels stressful for me. My three little people have totally different schedules to keep track of, and my baby girl has her own agenda. There’s paperwork: both the kind that accumulates in massive piles in the first couple of weeks and the loose-leaf permission slips and sign-up forms that I find shoved into backpacks throughout the year. Also, school lunches. I’m pretty regimented about using a system to keep their lunches organized, but now that the boys are older, they want to have lunch at school—but only on specific days. So now tracking the cafeteria calendar is a part-time job, as is making sure their lunch cards have enough money on them to get the teriyaki chicken this Thursday. There are field trips and performances. There are bake sales and carnivals. There are dropoffs and pickups and banking days when they get out an hour early, and if Jackson (God bless him!) didn’t remind me about them, I’d likely forget every single one. There are so many things to remember, and I guess what ultimately stresses me out is the idea that other moms—at school or out there in the wild world—are somehow way better at keeping track of this than I am.

I am one of the most organized people I have ever met, and even with all of my planning, I still am constantly forgetting things—or remembering them at midnight the night before they’re due. And no matter what I do or create or volunteer for, some mythical “other mom” at school has done it better.

“Yes, Mommy, you can buy the T-shirt we need for make-your-own-T-shirt day, but Liam’s mom grew organic cotton plants. Then she hand-separated the seed from the fiber before spinning it into thread and fabric for the shirt she sewed him herself.”

I can’t even begin to keep up, and the stress of trying to do so can make me crazy.

So this year I made a big decision.

I’m over it. I am utterly over the idea of crushing back-to-school time—or any other part of school for that matter! I do some parts of it well. Our morning routine might be choreographed chaos, but we are never late to school. My kids (with the exception of the four-year-old) are well groomed and well mannered, and they get good grades. Beyond that, they are good people—the kind of kids who befriend the outcasts and the loners. Sure, they attack each other at home and are dramatic enough about their lack of access to technology to earn themselves Oscars, but whatever. We are doing pretty good—and pretty good is way better than trying to fake perfection any day of the week.

So I might not volunteer in the classroom this year—though count me in for store-bought goodies at the class parties. And I might not make it to every field trip, because even if it means I’m the jerk of all jerks, I hate chaperoning field trips. Also—gird your loins—a babysitter will likely pick up my boys from school more than I will. I wish our town would extend more grace for this . . . perhaps the same level of grace extended to working fathers who aren’t able to make pickup either?

Mom, you should parent in whatever way works for your family and spend less time worrying about other people’s perceptions of how you’re doing. Can we stop being so hard on ourselves and instead focus on the good work we are doing, the results of which are evident in the awesome little people we’re raising?

What if we all went into the next school year with the simple intention of just gracefully doing our best? Meaning, let’s try our darndest to turn in every slip on time and remember every Wacky Hair Wednesday, all the while knowing that we’ll inevitably forget something, be too busy to volunteer, or fail to compete with Liam’s mom and her non-GMO custom gingerbread kits for every member of the class. Can we agree that imperfection is okay? Liam’s mom is awesome at her thing—but you and me? We’re awesome at ours. We can walk into the school year and remember that we’re raising our children into the adults they will become. Our valiant endeavor will take us a lifetime of effort. A single day, or even a handful of days, when you aren’t mom of the century won’t make or break your kids. It’s the intention to do well that will see them through. It’s the lessons in grace and self-care and realistic expectations, where you teach them about what you’re capable of, that will truly serve them later on. Choose a handful of things that you rock as a school mom, then knock those out of the park as often as you can. The other stuff? Give yourself the permission to do the best you can and the grace to be peaceful on the days when you miss the mark.

My children’s attitudes will shift and grow over time. I believe that the very thing that makes me so different now—the company I run—is one of the things that will make me cool when they’re older. I hope I’m creating something they’ll be proud of. I hope I’m showing them the power of following their dreams and the value of entrepreneurship. I hope so many things for the future . . . but often those don’t help me with today.

Today I am on yet another business trip, my third in as many weeks. Today Jackson is nervous about rehearsing his lines to audition for the class musical, and it’s hard to accept because I’m good at musical theater but not there to help him. Today Ford has a cough and a fever, and he’s been clingy and fighting us on bedtime. But I won’t be there to help Dave manage him this evening around eight o’clock when he decides he’s meant to stay up all night like a club promoter from the eighties.

There’s always something.

Something that can overwhelm me and make me question whether or not I’m doing any of this correctly. That anxiety I felt when they were first born didn’t exactly go away. It manifested and grew like a yeast starter. The only difference between now and then is that I’m better able to see that narrative for the lie that it is. Being a perfect mom is a myth—but being a pretty great mom, most of the time, is actually possible. I don’t believe in one best way to parent. In fact, I think it could be pretty damaging to our children if we tried to impose the ideals of someone else onto how our family should function.

The Hollis boys are sarcastic. They get that from their parents. Dave and I think it’s hilarious, and we admire their quick wit. But in your house, their sarcasm might be seen as disrespectful. Likewise, I’m incredibly strict with manners. I want yes ma’ams and no sirs. I demand pleases and thank yous, and if someone says something inappropriate or rude at my dinner table, they will be asked to leave. But maybe in your house that seems over the top. Maybe at your table you burp the alphabet after every meal and then laugh like maniacs together. If so, awesome. Mama, there is no one way to be a mother.

There’s also no one way to be a family. Remember when I was talking to the new moms about the daily requirements: keep the baby alive, and keep yourself alive as well? Well, the list for older children might be extended, but the intention is still the same. You need to care, truly care that you are raising your babies to grow up to be good people. You need to do the work today to ensure that it happens. On some days you will knock it out of the ballpark, and on other days you will scream the house down, wondering who replaced your children with changelings who have horrible manners and no respect.

Good news! Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow you’ll count to ten before you lose your temper, and maybe they’ll eat every bite of the dinner you made and say something so hilarious you’ll think, Man, people without kids are totally missing out! You will experience every kind of day as a mama, and you will need to accept the grab bag of good, bad, ugly, awesome, magical, and miserable days as a parent. You don’t have to get it right all the time. You don’t have to do things like anybody else’s mom.

You only have to care.

Not only about them, but also about yourself. You cannot properly take care of your children or teach them how to be whole and happy people if you are miserable and harsh with yourself. That means doing the absolute best with them that you can. That means calling in reinforcements in the form of friends, your spouse, your mama, or the playland at your local gym when you’re fraying at the edges and need a break. That means giving yourself time alone and away from the precious cherubs who are driving you crazy. Get a manicure, go for a run, or call up your college roommate for dinner. Better yet, plan a whole weekend if you can. Imagine two full days without once wiping anyone’s nose. Imagine being called by your actual first name! Can you imagine sleeping in? Oh my gosh, girl, you are going to sleep so hard.

Or maybe you’ll get a massage. Or maybe hole up somewhere all day watching Drew Barrymore movies on TBS . . . The world is your oyster! Then imagine coming home feeling uplifted and renewed, feeling better able to manage the squeals and screams and requests to have the crust cut off without wanting to lock yourself in the closet. Imagine living your motherhood out from now until forever, without guilt. Imagine caring for your children and yourself simultaneously without constantly questioning every decision you make. It’s possible.

It’s also a choice.

You have to choose not to compare. Don’t compare your family to other families or yourself to other women or moms at school. You have to choose not to compare your children either—not to your friends’ kids and most definitely not to each other. I am not saying that you shouldn’t strive to improve yourself as a parent; and when it comes to kids, your job is to help them become their best selves. But sister, please, please, please stop allowing your fear of getting it wrong to color every beautiful thing you’re doing right.

Years ago I had to make a choice. Either I had to embrace being a working mom and be wholly proud of what I was doing, or I had to quit and commit to being a stay-at-home mom. Constantly castigating myself for my choices wasn’t fair to my children, and it definitely wasn’t fair to me. I also wasn’t setting a great example for them. Did I really want them to see me spending my life pursuing a dream while also anxiously acting as though I didn’t deserve that right? Absolutely not.

A couple years ago, when I was trying to lose the baby weight from my second son, I went to visit my first trainer. She was a battle-ax of a woman with a fondness for burpees (clearly in league with the Devil), and more than once I puked after the time I spent with her. Jerk.

One day we were talking about my diet—at the time I was still going through a bad breakup with Carl’s Jr.—and she asked me, “Would you ever feed your child the food you feed yourself?”

At the time I had a habit of going half a day without eating, then binging on anything and everything in sight. I was horrified by the question because I put so much time and energy into what my boys ate. No, of course I wouldn’t ever feed my children the way I feed myself.

Later, a version of this question became the lifeline I used to pull myself back from the brink of debilitating mom guilt. Would I ever want my children to feel this way? Would I ever want them to pursue the desire of their heart, the profession that lights their soul on fire—be it a stay-at-home parent or cosmonaut or entrepreneur—but then constantly second-guess every choice they made because it doesn’t look like everyone else’s social media feed? Oh my gosh, you guys, the very idea makes my heart want to stop. I would never want them to struggle with their worth as I have. I would never want them to question themselves to the point of anxiety. I would never want them to think their entire parenting career could be summarily dismissed over Cheerios on a random school morning.

So I made a decision.

I will do my best, and I will trust that my best is exactly what God intended for these babies.

So I choose my battles. I do the best I can with the time I have, and I bend and stretch for the stuff that seems particularly important, even if it only makes sense in the mind of a seven-year-old. One season Sawyer announced that he only liked my sandwiches for lunch—not Daddy’s. I started getting up early each day to make sure I was the only one who made their lunch. When Jackson told me he wanted to start running with me, I bought him shoes and went on the slowest mile-long jog the world has ever known. And when he told me I should get a necklace like the other moms . . . I got one.

I got that necklace, but there are still a hundred reasons why I don’t fit into all of this as neatly as other women do. For example:

I hate organized sports.

Being a sports mom is sort of a badge of honor, right? Your kids get into soccer or baseball or hockey or gymnastics or whatever, and you jump right in along with them. All over Facebook and social media are pictures of mamas joyfully cheering from the sidelines. My girlfriend Kate recently told me she nearly lost her voice cheering at her son’s game because she was so excited to be there. I love Kate for that: she is so quintessentially that sports mom who’s in for every single part of it. But I am not.

I love my kids more than anything on this planet. But sports? Meh. Sports aren’t really my thing. For several years I beat myself up because I dreaded having our Saturdays disrupted by a game schedule. I felt like a crappy mom because I should want to be out there watching my son play soccer or baseball, but I really didn’t. Oh sure, on the outside I cheered and yelled and made the special game-day snacks, but on the inside—and I know I’ll get flak for this admission—I thought (and still think) it’s kind of boring.

My husband? He could not be more thrilled to be there. He loves sports of any kind, and I suspect watching his sons play them might be on his list of top three favorite things on this planet. But I don’t get it. I mean, I’m happy the boys are happy. I’m thrilled that they’re involved in a team sport, learning the benefits of physical activity and gaining confidence in themselves. Beyond that? It’s just not my favorite thing. And I know there are those of you who don’t understand this perspective. For you, these kinds of activities make your heart sing. For you, these kinds of moments are exactly what you imagined when you dreamed of being a mom—and I think it’s so rad that you feel that way. It’s awesome that we each get to experience moments of blissed-out mama pride with our babies, but what evokes that is different for every one of us.

If time has taught me anything, it’s that our differences are what make this life unique. None of us are exactly like the other, and that is a good thing because there’s no right way to be. The room mom, the working mother, the woman without children, the retired grandma, the mom who co-sleeps, the mama who bottle-fed her baby, the strict mom, the hipster mom, the one who lets her kid go shoeless, or the one who enrolls her baby in music enrichment classes at birth—whoever, whatever you are, you’re adding spice and texture and nuance into this big beautiful soup of modern-day parenting. I can look at other mamas and learn from them. I can also leave the things that don’t strike me as authentic or practical for our family. You can do the same for your own. That is the beauty of growing and learning and figuring out exactly who you are.

THINGS THAT HELPED ME . . .

1. I looked at the evidence. I used to spend so much time obsessing over all the things I was doing wrong as a mom. But you know what? My kids are awesome! Oh sure, they drive me bonkers at times, but they get great grades and are kind and welcoming to everyone they meet. I’m the one they come to when they’re hurt. I’m the one they call out for in the night if they have a bad dream. Our bond is strong and unbreakable, which doesn’t change simply because I’m a working mother. Look at the evidence in your own life. If you’re raising arsonists who are rude to their grandma . . . well, maybe you need to seek out some help. But if your kids are basically good most of the time, then cut yourself some slack.

2. I made friends with the other moms. Yes, the ones your kids are comparing you to. Yes, the ones you’re comparing yourself to. If they’re at all human, then chances are they can tell you that they’re also worried about screwing up their kids. Yes, Samantha’s mom who sewed one hundred sequins onto one hundred buttons onto the hat she made by hand all to celebrate the one hundredth day of school? Yep. She’s worried about her parenting too. The emperor has no clothes, y’all, and unless you seek out the truth, you’re never going to know it.

3. I focused on quality. When I’m stressing about parenting, it’s usually because I feel like I’m lacking for quality time with my kids. Quality time means I’m not on the phone or near a computer or talking to another adult. Usually it looks like reading, playing Candy Land, going on movie dates, or cooking with them. When I focus my energy on them, that’s when I really feel content that I’m doing a good job.