reflections as a mother of one

“Is he your first?”

When my son was just a baby and strangers would peer into the stroller at his squishable cheeks and rosebud lips, awing at the sight of our sweet bundle, this was often their first question.  It was as though they were waiting to know whether to unleash an abundance of sage new parenting advice or simply smile, nod, and comment on how I must have my hands full or if he was the only boy, etc.

As a proud (albeit exhausted) new mama, I would smile and declare, “Yes” which was then often followed by a gush and the aforementioned sage new parenting advice about being sure to “enjoy him” because “they grow up so fast.”

I loved being that “new mom.” I reveled in it. I didn’t mind the advice, the wisdom, the gushing over how exciting this time in my life was. I loved it because as long as I was still new, I didn’t need to have it all together.

Fast forward two years, and I am no longer a new mama. I am a veteran. I have spent two of the most exhausting, joyous, tough, intense, happy years of my life preparing that tiny baby boy for toddlerhood. 

And.  Here we are. Toddlerhood.

And yet.

I still.feel.like such a newbie. I may not be a “new mother” but boy oh boy do I feel new as I adjust to this whole toddler thing.  One piece of advice “they” always seem to leave out is that just when you start to feel comfortable with one stage of development, you wake up, and that baby that went to sleep the night before, is a new human being. Bigger. Stronger. Louder. Funnier. Bouncier. Smarter. And ready to challenge your very notions of parenthood.

As we enter this new (incredible) phase of our son’s childhood, I am, of course, finding that some of it is far easier than it used to be. His ability to entertain himself for minutes at a time, listen to and respond to instruction, or delight in “helping” with chores around the house have given me a little more sense of freedom.

And yet.

And yet, I still have days (like yesterday) where once he is put down to bed all I want to do is crawl to the couch (or bed) and not move for the next several hours, chores and to do lists taking a backseat to my weariness.

(But this is supposed to be easier right? You’ve been doing this a while now.  You do just have the one).

And still….

I forget to restock the diaper bag.

I leave the snacks on the kitchen counter, next to the baby sunscreen, while we head to the park. 

I don’t shower every day.

“Is he your only one?”

The question has changed.  Walking around the park with my (not always sunscreened) toddler, I can’t help but notice that most of the moms on the playground chasing after toddlers like my own are either sporting a precious round bump or patting the bum of a Moby-wrapped newborn, seeming to have it all under control while I, mother of one, am silently chastising myself for forgetting the darn sunscreen, checking each minute to see if my son’s skin looks pinker, not taking my eyes off of him for one single second.  Wondering how the drive home will be if the snacks that sit on the kitchen counter aren’t readily available at the toddler’s (predictable-duh, how could you forget them?) request.

The question comes out cheerily, as a veteran mama bounces her newest little bundle, not even facing the direction of her toddler while I keep darting my eyes to keep mine in my direct line of vision.

My “yes” is no longer declared so proudly. I almost feel I need to apologize when responding, like I need to follow up with: “Oh, I know.  I know I have it easy. I know. I know it’s time that we had another one. I know. I know that getting him out of the house took WAY less time than it did for your two (except it didn’t).”

And then I want to follow that with: “YOU. You’re the real mother here. You’re the real one making it all work, juggling two (more?) children’s schedules, making sure they are both (all) fed, clothed, (sunscreened).” 

Because the rational side of me says I’ve beat the learning curve. I am no longer a “new mommy.”  I should have this down and be preparing for another, to stay sharp, keep challenging myself. I feel like as I stand there looking at these two + kid parents, that I am somehow not good enough. That by “only” having one child, I am shying away from the “real” stuff. The “real” exhaustion.  The “real” measure of what it means to be a mother.  That this stage of life should just be a cake walk. That I can’t be relatable to women who no longer mother “only children.”

And yet.

I still sometimes feel that I am so far behind the learning curve I may never catch up.  The other moms on the playground, the ones with their Ergos and Moby wraps and double strollers, look so together to me. They look almost relaxed, less anxious about sunburns and strangers.

They managed to get out of the house with fully stocked diaper bags (and remember the sunscreen I am sure) while I fought through a two year old’s tears wanting sandals instead of tennis shoes, to buckle his carseat himself, to go “that way” rather than “this way” and already feel completely beaten down before we even set foot on the playground.  And they probably dealt with the same thing ONLY WITH ANOTHER little person to take care of, too, and they don’t look as haggard and impatient as I most certainly feel.

But I know…

It’s ok to have the feelings that I have. It’s ok to feel like I don’t have it all together. It’s ok that my days feel just as exhausting as a mother of two. It’s ok that I still forget the sunscreen.

Because  I’m still a mother. I still have a learning curve. All us mamas do.  My baby (toddler) is growing and changing and presenting me with new (wondrous!) challenges each and every day.

Because those mamas with their second, third, fourth beautiful bundles may face different challenges and with more little people to factor into those challenges, but they and I are still mamas.  We are still investing our love and time and energy into these incredible vessels of life.  We still need to support each other, whether we mother one baby or five.

We are all still mamas. 

I hope that someday our son knows the love and fun of having a sibling.  For now, the next time I see that Moby-wrapped, double stroller mama on the playground, rather than shy away, I want to laugh with her over our toddlers playing together and stroke her newest one’s soft downy head (with permission of course), and revel in the fact that we both get what it means to be a hard-working, intensely loving, sometimes impatient, sometimes forgetful, heart nearly bursting mama.