I once was a new mom. I’m not referring to the glow or the fresh-mom scent, but rather to the intense attention I had for my first child. I was completely focused, eager to learn the art of motherhood. I devoured parenting books, crafted hand-stitched curtains, and meticulously documented every milestone in a baby book. What I mean to say is, I never let my firstborn tumble off the changing table.
For our inaugural outing when he was just two weeks old, I took him to a work barbecue for my husband. He was dressed in adorable plaid overalls from a trendy designer, complete with a matching sailor hat that had his name embroidered on it. I wore him in a baby carrier, gliding through the party in a blissful, new-mom haze, with a sweet lullaby playing in my mind. I was on cloud nine.
That is, until someone reached out to touch his impossibly soft hands with their grown-up, germy fingers. I nearly choked on my own panic and spun away like they were carrying the plague. No way was I letting some random person invade the perfection of my little one.
I was all about enrichment then. I was a complete enthusiast for educational play spaces, driving miles to library story times and puppet shows. In my car’s glove compartment, I kept a spiral notebook that listed and rated every playground within a 45-minute drive. And believe me, we visited them all.
I packed healthy snacks, sippy cups, spare clothes, bikes with training wheels, bathing suits, and balls—all neatly stashed in my trusty minivan. I was like the Girl Scout of moms, ready to feed an army of spontaneous playdate kids. Once, at a playground, when another child fell and scraped his knee, I rushed over with a bottle of water, spray Neosporin, and a Band-Aid just like in the commercials. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” I said to the shocked mother.
But somewhere along the way, I ceased to be that new mom.
Maybe it happened when I gave away all my maternity clothes only to discover three months later that I was expecting my fourth child. Or perhaps it was the realization that if I brought the bikes, the kids would want rollerblades, and if I brought those, they would demand soccer balls. No matter how I dressed one in time to leave, the others had already rolled down the hill into a mud puddle, half undressed.
I can’t pinpoint the moment; eventually, it all blurred into a chaotic mix of meal prep, playdates, teacher gifts, and potty training.
What I do remember is the handyman in my kitchen fixing something dirty just two weeks after my fourth child arrived. He’d just announced that he was going to be a grandpa. So when I realized I needed to tend to one of the toddlers wailing from upstairs, I handed my shiny newborn to him—yes, right into his rough, calloused hands. His face registered shock, wide-eyed with disbelief, as my baby made a surprised “o” face. I laughed to myself as I walked away; I was no longer a new mom.
Then there was that moment at the playground when I breastfed her with one hand and yanked my two-year-old son off his twin sister on the pirate ship with the other. As I turned, one child dangling from his hood and an infant’s legs sticking out from my shoulder, an old man from the benches exclaimed, “Is she feeding a baby under there?!” Yes, sir. Yes, I am.
I’ve missed piano recitals, forgotten birthday parties, had my mouth peed into, and caught vomit in my hands. I’ve dealt with high fevers, surgeries with hundreds of stitches, and bizarre rashes worthy of social media sharing.
I do miss a little the dreamy new-mom vibe, that feeling that every moment was magical and important. But honestly, I’m thriving as an “old mom.” Last month, we visited New York City, and my four kids touched every escalator handrail, stair railing, elevator button, and door handle before picking their noses or munching on an old apple slice found in their pockets.
The cribs and high chairs are long gone, and the booster seats are a mess. Sometimes we remember to wash our hands before dinner; other times, I’m not even sure where the kids are when it’s time to call them in.
And you know what? We’re doing just fine. New mom was a sweet, hopeful figure, and I do miss her unblemished skin and her belief that she could control it all. But the truth is, old mom is pretty amazing. I stride along with my four slightly grimy kids, running five minutes late and looking a bit disheveled, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. We show up, we kick butt, and we have a blast.
Cheers to all the old moms out there—we’ve made it!
For more insights into the journey of motherhood, check out this article. If you’re curious about home insemination, visit this resource. Also, for a deeper understanding of artificial insemination, this Wikipedia page is an excellent read.
Summary:
The author reflects on her journey from being a new mom, filled with focus and care, to embracing the chaos of motherhood with multiple children. While she misses the sweet moments of being a new mom, she finds joy and fulfillment in her current role as an “old mom,” managing the unpredictable and messy aspects of family life with humor and resilience.