Moms Struggle to “Live Our Best Lives”; and This is Why.

The advice for moms in never-ending. Bits of shared wisdom to navigate through the blissful chaos that is motherhood. And, there is no shortage of popular adages to guide us along the way.

All day long my social media feeds encourage me to “live my best life”. I was raised with the good sense to “work hard and play hard!” My mom always reminded me, “you can’t dance if you don’t pay the band”. My fitness blogs and coaches challenge me to tell them, “what I did today that was just for me.” Even from the very first time I picked up a maternity book I read, “you cannot take care of your family, if you do not first take care yourself.”

As moms we work tirelessly to provide love and light to everyone.  We watch as the seeds of our life bloom around us. Children. Husband. Career. Friendship. Faith. Philanthropy. Creativity. Health. Financial Stability. The list goes on and on.

We are smart, intentional women. We know that life is all about balance. We know that in order to be great moms; we need to be great women first. Women who are strong. Women who embrace life. Women who take risks. Women who create boundaries and break through them in equal measure.

And so we move through our daily routines in search of balance. We learn to balance pick-up lines, and home work, and lunches, and laundry, and school theme days, and endless mountains of paperwork, and long days in the office, and nights filled with emotional hurdles, and juggling financial woes, and last minute trips to the grocery store because we just found out we need to send 16 snacks that start with the letter “K” to school the next day.

Just when we think we cannot pile one more thing on; we redistribute everything to pile on even more. And somehow, we convince ourselves that this constant redistribution of the load we carry is helping us to achieve balance.

And this stuff is heavy!  Sure, there are physically heavy things. Like carrying 2 backpacks, 2 lunch boxes, the rhyme box, the nightly reading bag, and any number of discarded clothing items to the car at the end of the school day. And not because they asked nicely. Because they walked out of the school and dropped it all at our feet.

But some of the heaviest things are not “things” at all. I am talking about the emotional load. The never-ending list of fears and worries that run through our brains in the middle of night. The panic that sets in when we forget something on the to do list.  The anxiety we feel over constantly questioning the decisions we make.

Did I pack the right food for lunch today? Did I remember to send in the permission slip? Do I spend enough time reading with my child? Is it gym or art today? Do we have any pants without holes in knees?  Should I be worried that my child only eats 5 foods? Did I remember to schedule a sitter for my meeting on Thursday? When was my last doctor appointment? If my youngest is 5, can I still go to my OBGYN? What is the temperature going to be tomorrow? How many arguments will we have trying to get everyone out the door in the morning? Do I still send my kid to school in boots when the snow is melted but the ground is wet?

I mean, that last one sounds ridiculous. But seriously, do I?

I ask myself these questions and a million more. Usually around 2 o’clock in the morning. I give myself a hard time when my child’s birthday passes and 2 weeks after I still have not gotten into the pediatrician. I update and edit the family calendar so many times in a week that I am blue in the face. Some nights I stand in front of the refrigerator and think about how much easier it would be to just go to bed and skip dinner. But I cannot do that. Because if I go to bed then the to do list will only get longer.

We are in the messy, middle part of life. Our kiddos are somewhere between the adorable newborn phase and mature self-sufficiency phase. And from what I can tell this messy middle might last anywhere from 7-25 years. And right now that sounds like a really long time.

So what is a mom to do?

Some days I take more deep sighs then I am comfortable admitting. Some days we far exceed our screen time limits. Some days I put on my biggest sunglasses and hide my tears from the world. Some days I turn up the 90s rap music so loudly in the car that my windows shake. And some days none of that is enough. Because some days I just need a break.

But as any mom alongside you in this messy middle will tell you; the break is never stronger than the bite. You know, the reality bite that is waiting for you after your break. The overly emotional children. The back log of to do items. The exasperating feeling of being two (or two hundred) steps behind. The constant feeling of being punished for taking some time away for yourself. Because in the messy middle your life is not your own. In the messy middle too often moms are living life for everyone around them first.

I do not see a lot of moms in the messy middle living their best life. Even if social media occasionally makes it look all “rosé all day” and “pink wine in the sunshine.” Reality looks a little more like this; “tantrums all day” and “too much whine and whipping someone else’s behind.”

So, I may not be “living my best life.” My days with giant straw hats on expansive beaches may be few and far between. My moments on the town may be restricted to occasional weekend nights between the hours of 6 and 10pm. But in this messy middle phase of life; it is ok to live a “best I can do for now life.”

Because remember, it is all about balance. And even though I may be failing desperately to achieve balance today; maybe the real balance is still to come. Maybe the real balance is that we live for everyone else in the beginning; and that teaches us to live for ourselves. And the hope of that might just be enough to push me through the next 7-25 years.  


Navigating Diagnosis; Again.

Nothing prepares you to receive a diagnosis for your child. No amount of Google searching. No in-depth conversations reliving every single milestone in your young child’s life. No “just give me a sign” plea to the higher power in your life.

Nothing prepares you for the moment that a doctor sits across from you and changes your life with 7 words.

7 words you probably already knew were true.  7 words you spent countless nights wishing away. 7 words you feared. 7 words your ran from. 7 words you will never un-hear. Just 7 little words.

“Your son is on the autism spectrum.”

You look at your child a million different ways. From a million different perspectives. You look from top to bottom; inside out. And each and every time you change your angle, you will see the same thing. You see your child.

You see the physical traits. You see the behaviors. You see their emotional and physical responses to new situations. You see the facial expressions that tell you what kind of mood they are in. You see the preferences they are developing. You start to learn their triggers. The things in their path that pull them of course.

You look at your child and you see them for all that they have ever been; yours. All of them. Even the parts you wish you could heal. Even the pieces that you know might never fit. Even the parts that scare you.The parts you do not understand.

And then all the sudden someone else sits before you and your child. Someone who has only seen a small fraction of all the moments you hold so dear. Someone who will never know all the layers of your child. All the expressions and traits and behaviors.  That person sits before you and they change your world. They tell you that your child; the one who’s heart first beat from inside of you, is different from you in a way that you cannot change. In a way that you cannot begin to understand.

And for just a moment you stare back at the doctor as if they are a thief. As if they have just stolen something from you. Something that was yours; more than anything else has ever been yours before.  They strip you of everything you thought you knew and replace it with an uncomfortable blank slate. An empty slate. A new beginning in a foreign land.

My son was two-year-old when he first received his autism diagnosis. Every single day of the last four years we have navigated this foreign land. Using only the diagnosis as our guide, we walk this journey.

And I keep waiting for it to feel familiar. To find comfort in this never-ending journey. A journey we learn a little more about every single day.

But the comfort does not come. The familiarity does not set in. Each day feels as new as the last. Filled with uncertainty and fear and just a little bit of wonder. Something new awaits us around every twist and turn. And there are not road signs on this journey. No warnings of what might lie ahead.

Almost four years to the day from the autism diagnosis I found myself, as I often do, sitting before a medical team. And, I should have sensed the familiarity. I should have been comforted by past experiences. I should have recognized it sooner.

I did not.

I sat in an unfamiliar-familiar place and heard 7 little words. 7 new words. 7 words with a just a little bit of nostalgia. 7 words that would further complicate an already complicated journey. 7 words that will change our course. Again.  7 little words.

“Your son has a dual diagnosis; ADHD.”

I still look at my child and see the only thing that that has every really mattered. He is mine. He is mine more than anything has ever been mine. He is mine. His autism is mine. His ADHD is mine. Every piece of this beautifully complex person is mine.

And so we turn the page. A new beginning in a foreign land.