Me - The Unnatural Mother

Every once in a while I wonder if I am really cut out for motherhood. I know that I do the best that I can, but I sometimes wonder if it is not enough. I see these mothers that seem to have it all together - mothers with perfect budgets; those who have clean homes and freshly cooked meals; those who manage to squeeze in one activity after another and still wear a beautiful smile at the end of the day; those that seamlessly manage to parent a rambunctious toddler while pregnant with number two.

Maybe those women put on a facade of perfection, but I don't think so. Some women really are superhuman and can do just about anything where their children are concerned.

Since becoming a mother, I've had moments where I felt certain things came naturally. For instance, nurturing a child is, perhaps, the most natural thing a woman could do (in my opinion). While breastfeeding was a challenge at the start, I cherished those quiet minutes I shared with Esther and it felt so right to hold her close and nourish her in the way I knew how.

It also comes natural for women to want the best for their children, to do everything in their power to ensure their safety and well being. My head is constantly spinning with thoughts of all the "what-ifs" that plague mothers and I am constantly mulling over ways I can protect Esther from it all.

Still, I am beginning to think that "natural" parenting is a gift more than an inherited trait.

On nights like tonight, where Esther is fussy and hard to please, I get to wishing I had the natural parent gift, or at least some magic word to use that would bring peace to my house. I wish I could be like a couple friends of mine who make motherhood look so easy that they would put June Cleaver to shame.

Instead, I feel like an ever-expanding whale who falls apart every time her daughter cries or falls down. Yes, that is me - the pregnant bride of Frankenstein who works double-time to be the best mommy I can be.

The bottom line is that I love my daughter, but I get frustrated and stressed at the end of a busy day.

I spend my entire morning and afternoon imagining the picture perfect evening: I pick up my daughter who is so happy to see me that she literally skips to the car and happily climbs into her car seat (which, coincidentally, she's miraculously able to buckle on her own, no fussing or tears). We head home on a very peaceful drive, where she's singing and chatting in the backseat and I'm humming happy-go-lucky hippy songs in the front. Once at home, I lovingly pull out the dinner that I made the night before, pop it in the oven to warm, and enjoy playtime with her father and her. After our meal, that everyone happened to enjoy, we fall into our perfectly scheduled routine that leads us to an easy, glorious bed time. We read her a book, give her a bottle, brush her teeth, and kiss her goodnight. And, viola!, she's fast a sleep until morning.

What a dream!

One that is so easily shattered by reality.

This is how it really goes:

I pick up my daughter, who is very happy to see me, but not so happy to leave her Nana's house. I walk her outside, something she enjoys doing, and then fight to get her into her seat. She cries the entire drive home. Dinner was barely a thought in my head that morning, but is suddenly something that desperately needs to be made and eaten before ten that evening. I come in the door and want nothing more than to crash on the couch for five minutes, but the dogs are going crazy, my daughter is teetering between content and unhappy, and my husband has to shower. So I try my best to figure out how to balance it all and cook dinner, but I end up waiting the half hour it takes my husband to finish so that he can either watch the baby or help me cook. We struggle throughout the rest of the evening, wondering why Esther has suddenly decided that solid food is disgusting and how she can be the happiest child anyone has seen until it comes time for bed.

Due to the insanity of bedtime mixed with the insanity that comes with being an unnatural mother, I have come to rely heavily on my husband to assist with putting her to bed each night. Having weaned due to pregnancy, I've instead taken to making her nighttime bottle and feeding her in the rocking chair. My husband then takes over and spends the next hour wrestling the world's strongest baby into her crib. And then the screaming commences. Fortunately, at that point, she tires easily and all it takes is a few reassuring pats from my husband to calm her.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting in our room with my head between my knees crying over the great expectations that had been violently thrown out the window.

When it's all said and done and she's finally asleep, I relax, exhausted husband by my side, a warm cup of hot cocoa in my hands, and a brainless TV show playing quietly in front of me.

And I smile, because I realize, when the house is silent, how much I love my daughter and all the chaos she brings. I realize that there is not a single thing I would change - be it our insane schedule of events or the passion my daughter shows in everything she does.

When I lay my head down in the evening and fade into sleep, the dream begins again and I hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be different. I'll wake up and find myself perfectly fitting into the mold of mommy.

But, then again, perfection always was overrated.