There was a time when I considered myself somewhat “normal.” Well, perhaps “normal” is a strong word, but I was certainly sane. Not too long ago, I was rational, calm, and had a firm grip on my emotions. As a professional educator, parents relied on my expertise to guide their children’s learning. I even penned articles and delivered talks on effective parenting strategies, believing I had it all figured out. Life felt flawless.
After work, I returned to my immaculate, always tidy, perfectly organized apartment. I had a boyfriend and a vibrant social circle. My Friday nights were spent sipping margaritas, and I was committed to my fitness routine, running races and attending my 7 a.m. gym classes without fail. At one time, I was in great shape, and I occasionally indulged in shopping sprees for myself. I even bought size 00 clothing marked “Dry Clean Only”—a concept that feels alien now—and often splurged on full-price items from upscale boutiques. Yes, it was all incredibly perfect.
Then came my adventures abroad. I’m not talking about quick trips to the grocery store; I mean real travels to exotic locales, where I dined at fine restaurants that didn’t offer kids’ menus or hand me crayons. I relaxed in castles and enjoyed spa days overlooking stunning coastlines. It was bliss—a perfect life.
But that was the old me. I was single and carefree, as my grandma would say, “without a chick or a child to worry about.” I thought I had it all figured out.
Now, I wake up to a reality that is a stark contrast to my past. I am far from the composed individual I once was. It would be a stretch to label myself sane these days. Ever since my little boy entered the world five years ago, I’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster. He wrapped his tiny fingers around my heart, leaving me sobbing with a love I never knew I could feel.
Since becoming a mother, my emotions have been anything but stable. The arrival of my son, followed closely by his sister, turned my world upside down. All my previous knowledge about parenting seems irrelevant now. What truly matters is my role as their mom, which is an entirely different journey.
I rented out my pristine condo and moved to a home in the suburbs, where the chaos reigns supreme. Fingerprints adorn the fridge. I’ve come to view them as a unique form of decoration. Mountains of laundry pile up because nothing in our house is labeled “Dry Clean Only.” After all, you can’t have spontaneous squirt gun fights or plant seeds in anything that requires special care.
I can’t recall the last time I stepped into a gym. Well, that’s a bit of a fib—I did try last year, but my husband’s work schedule clashed with preschool pickup, and that was the end of that. But that’s alright because I still find ways to get my workout in. I run to the park, dash up and down the stairs, and leap out the door when my daughter needs me. I might still own a couple of those size 00 pants, but they’d be out of place at the playground or covered in finger paint. Besides, I rarely make it beyond the dollar bin at Target before someone shouts they need to use the restroom.
Travel has become a distant memory. Fancy meals at upscale restaurants are no longer part of my life. Now, when I crave something exotic, I indulge in Italian ice made by my little boy with his snow cone maker, swapping margaritas for sippy cups. But you know what? I cherish the moments I cuddle in bed with my kids, reading stories about magical lands, castles, and adventures. We laugh, we dream, and I practice my French with Fancy Nancy.
Once upon a time, I believed I had all the answers, but now I realize I don’t know much at all. Motherhood is an adventure filled with uncertainty, and every day I navigate it hoping I don’t mess up. I may yell too loud, cry too hard, or laugh too much, but I wouldn’t change a thing. This is our life, and it’s perfectly imperfect.
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In summary, motherhood transforms our lives in unpredictable ways, bringing both chaos and joy. Embracing this imperfect journey is what makes it so beautiful.