Updated: Aug. 20, 2015
Originally Published: Oct. 20, 2014
This week, my youngest child celebrates their thirteenth birthday, officially making me the parent of three teenagers. (No wonder my gray hairs are multiplying at an alarming rate!) Raising teens is incredibly stressful. When they were little, I was the one calling all the shots—what they had for breakfast, which shows they watched, who their friends were, and their bedtime routines. I mean, how badly could I mess that up? Even if they had a less-than-stellar breakfast, I could always redeem myself at lunch. Now, however, they’re making choices that could have far-reaching consequences, and I feel like time is slipping away for me to impart those crucial life lessons.
Then there’s the endless concern about online safety, substance misuse, their futures, safe relationships, texting and driving, and whether or not they remembered to wear clean underwear—because if they don’t and something happens, everyone at the hospital will think I’m a terrible parent who raised a bunch of Neanderthals.
To all the mothers of older children who once sympathized with me when I was a new mom—when I was a sleep-deprived, zombie-like figure who hadn’t showered in days because the baby cried the moment I put them down; when I thought of myself as just a walking milk dispenser; when I considered my day a win if I managed to brush my teeth—thank you for your words of reassurance: “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”
I clung to that hope like it was a lighthouse in a stormy sea. But as my baby transitioned from being glued to my breast to being glued to my leg, I held on to those promises tightly. I endured years filled with smelly diapers, toppled Christmas trees, and grocery store meltdowns, all the while hoping that the light at the end of the tunnel would soon shine brighter. Through years of being pooped on, spit up on, and having my hair pulled, I waited. I was told, “Don’t worry. It gets easier.”
By then, I had experienced motherhood long enough to know that “easier” was not coming anytime soon. But still, I hoped. Sleep was a luxury I could finally afford, which was great because I needed the energy to handle the endless questions, rescue goldfish from the desk after my four-year-old decided they needed fresh air, and unclog toilets that had become the graveyards of socks, Legos, and half-eaten sandwiches. I had sung “The Wheels on the Bus” at least 13 times in two hours and saved the dog from a chocolate chip explosion while balancing a squirmy baby on my hip. “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” you said.
And now, it’s all about slamming doors, eye rolls, and testing boundaries. It’s dealing with open challenges to my decisions and arguments over fairness. It’s dropping everything because my teenager has something urgent to discuss. It’s helping with math, enforcing curfews, explaining societal issues, and giving warnings about serious matters. It’s navigating friend drama and trying to understand why some stranger sent my teenage daughter inappropriate photos.
And please, don’t tell me it gets easier. I call bullcrap.
I’ve swapped kissing away scrapes for mending broken hearts. I’ve traded sleepless nights rocking a fussy baby for sleepless nights worrying about the choices they make when I’m not around—choices that could alter their lives and mine forever. I’ve replaced “The Wheels on the Bus” with the repeated mantra of “Be Responsible.” I’ve gone from answering questions about colors to discussing the complexities of human behavior.
But one thing remains constant: they still expect food… all the time. That hasn’t changed. And at least I no longer smell like baby vomit.
Sure, there are some ways in which life has become easier. I can leave the house without a small human in tow. I can sleep for more than three hours straight. And I haven’t been regurgitated on in months.
But in other ways, it’s tougher than ever. (Plus, let’s face it, they’re not as cute and forgivable as they used to be.)
What I heard when you said, “Don’t worry. It gets easier,” was that life would return to a state of normalcy. I envisioned a time when I could shower and think without interruption, when I could make decisions based on my own desires rather than what was best for the family. I wanted to reclaim the carefree version of myself that didn’t feel the weight of raising tiny humans.
But once you embark on the journey of motherhood, you must create a new normal. Sometimes, that means wearing old sweatpants because nothing is clean or fits right and navigating through a minefield of Legos while hiding chocolate on top of the fridge. Sometimes it’s about learning to function on little sleep, yet still cherishing every moment. It’s about bandaging wounds—both physical and emotional—and answering those awkward questions that come with parenting.
And when you’re the mom of three teenagers, it’s about setting boundaries and watching them learn through their mistakes. It’s about having those difficult conversations while ignoring the eye rolls and stepping back when they slip up instead of rushing in to save the day (which is, believe me, one of the hardest things to do). The new normal is trusting your kids to make wise decisions and loving them unconditionally, even when they don’t.
Which definitely isn’t easy. But it’s what normal looks like now.
So to all the moms out there with small children, don’t believe the hype when they say it gets easier. They mean well, but they’re mistaken. It doesn’t get easier; it just evolves. Those little beings you’re nurturing are constantly changing, and so are you. You grow. You learn. You adapt. You figure it out.
If you want to learn more about motherhood and all it entails, a great resource is this Cleveland Clinic podcast that covers pregnancy and home insemination topics. And if you’re curious about ways to boost your fertility, check out Make a Mom for expert advice.
For additional insights on insemination, you can read more on our blog here.