When the first day of school rolled around, I wanted to create a perfect morning for my kids. So, I woke up early, excited to whip up crispy bacon, warm croissants, and fresh fruit. I thought if I hustled, I might even squeeze in a cup of coffee before my sleepy-eyed children stumbled down the stairs, eager yet anxious to start their new school year.
My plan was to set the tone for a lovely breakfast that would nourish their minds and bodies. I envisioned them feeling loved while drizzling honey over their flaky pastries, chatting about their new classes, and sharing sticky kisses as they thanked me for making their morning special.
Reality, however, had other ideas. Two of my kids snoozed through their alarms, one sibling had a meltdown over who hogged the hot water, and another had a little accident in bed, leaving him soaked. The bacon was undercooked, the croissants burnt, and the fruit sat untouched. The morning turned into a chaotic mess, far from my ideal vision.
Having just moved two weeks prior, I hadn’t thought to check in with the school about transportation or where the bus stop was. I relied entirely on my 10-year-old daughter’s assurance that she knew where the bus would pick them up. As I kissed my three elementary school kids goodbye, I finally got that cup of coffee I had been craving.
Just as I stirred in the sweetener, my daughter burst through the door, breathless, saying the bus driver hadn’t seen them. Panic set in—school started in just ten minutes. Barefoot and braless, I rushed to gather my youngest daughters while barking orders at the older kids to get moving. My frustration mixed with my daughter’s anxiety resulted in a flood of tears.
We barely made it to school with a minute to spare. I hastily commanded my kids out of the van, apologizing to my daughter as she hopped out, but the damage was done.
As I drove home, I noticed how tense I felt—my shoulders were practically in my ears, and my grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. Parental guilt washed over me completely, and I loathed that feeling.
It hit me when I got back home that I hadn’t taken a single picture of my kids that morning. I had been too consumed in the chaos to even think about capturing the moment. Meanwhile, social media would soon be flooded with perfect, staged photos of other kids, all smiles with their neatly tucked shirts and oversized bows.
In an effort to keep it real, I snapped a selfie of myself in front of my van, holding up my prescription bottle of Xanax. My caption humorously lamented the morning disaster. Most comments were supportive, commending me for my honesty. But soon enough, the trolls emerged—accusations of being an “addict,” a “pill-popping housewife,” and a “bad mom” started pouring in.
I couldn’t help but wonder: would these same critics voice their concerns over moms sipping wine or posting about “Mommy juice”? I’ve never seen anyone question a parent’s competency for sharing a meme about needing a drink at 2 PM or flaunting a glass of wine at the end of a long day.
Why the double standard? Moms who drink are celebrated and viewed as fun and relatable, while those of us who rely on prescribed medications face judgment. It’s infuriating that people equate taking care of our mental health with weakness or addiction.
I am a better parent because I am medicated. Let’s change the narrative and recognize that managing mental health is just as commendable as enjoying a glass of wine.
In conclusion, it’s time we dismantle the stigma surrounding medicated moms and acknowledge that self-care comes in many forms.
For more on navigating parenthood and mental health, check out this blog post on handling complex emotions during challenging times.
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