I used to be a new mom. Not in the sense that I was just fresh off the assembly line, but rather in that I had an unwavering focus on my first child. I was deeply engaged, eager to learn everything I could about parenting. I dove into books about child-rearing, crafted handmade curtains adorned with stitched appliqué, and meticulously maintained a baby book to document every milestone. I was the epitome of vigilance; my firstborn was never left unattended on the changing table.
For our first excursion at just two weeks old, I took my baby to a work barbecue for my partner. Dressed in stylish plaid overalls and a matching sailor hat with his name stitched on it, I wore him in a Bjorn carrier and glided through the gathering, lost in a euphoric state reminiscent of a new mother’s dreams. In my mind, a sweet lullaby played, and I felt like I was floating on air.
That is, until someone reached out to touch his impossibly soft hands with their grimy adult fingers. Suddenly, I was overcome with a wave of nausea and recoiled as if they were carrying a contagious disease. I had created something so perfect, and I wasn’t about to let anyone’s germs tarnish that.
Back then, I was all about enrichment. I was the quintessential mom, eager to explore educational play areas, driving miles for library story times and puppet shows. I even kept a spiral-bound notebook in my glove compartment that listed and rated every playground within a 45-minute radius, and I made it my mission to visit them all.
My trusty minivan was stocked with healthy snacks, sippy cups, spare clothes, bikes with training wheels, swim gear, and balls—all ready for spontaneous playdates. One time at the playground, when another child fell and scraped his knee, I rushed over with an unopened bottle of water, Neosporin spray, and a Band-Aid, just like the ones in the commercials. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” I told the astonished mother.
But then, somewhere along the journey, the new mom in me faded.
Perhaps it was when I donated all my maternity clothes only to discover three months later that I was expecting my fourth child. Or it could have been the realization that if I packed the bikes, the kids would demand rollerblades, and if I brought those, they’d want soccer balls too. If I managed to get one dressed on time, the other three were already rolling down a hill into a mud puddle, half undressed.
At some point, everything morphed into a chaotic blur of meal prep, playdates, teacher gifts, and potty training. I distinctly remember the handyman in my kitchen fixing something just two weeks after my fourth baby arrived. He mentioned he was going to be a grandfather, and as I rushed to tend to one of the toddlers screaming from upstairs, I casually handed my newborn to him, not even flinching at his dirty hands. The look on his face was priceless—pure shock. I chuckled to myself as I strolled away, realizing that I was no longer the new mom I once was.
There was the time I strolled around the playground, breastfeeding one child with one hand while yanking my two-year-old son off his twin sister on the pirate ship with the other. An elderly man from the benches shouted, “Is she feeding a baby under there?!” Yes, sir. Yes, I am.
I’ve missed piano recitals, forgotten birthday parties, and even caught vomit in my hands. I’ve handled 105-degree fevers, surgeries with hundreds of stitches, and strange skin rashes that would make anyone cringe. A tiny part of me misses that dreamy new-mom mindset, where every moment felt like a magical gift, but honestly, being an experienced mom has its perks.
Last month, we visited New York City, and my four kids trailed their hands along every escalator rail, stair railing, elevator button, and door handle, only to pick their noses or munch on an old dried apple slice from their pockets. The cribs and high chairs are long gone, and the booster seats in my car look like relics from another era. We sometimes wash our hands before dinner—sometimes not. I’m not always sure where the kids are when I call them in for a meal.
The truth is, we’re doing just fine. That fresh-faced new mom was a sweet, hopeful soul, and while I miss her youthful optimism and controlled chaos, I’ve come to appreciate the seasoned mom I’ve become. I stride confidently through life with my four messy kids, five minutes late and a bit disheveled, and I wouldn’t change a thing. We show up, we embrace the chaos, and we have a blast.
Here’s to all the experienced moms out there—we’ve arrived.
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Summary
This article reflects on the transition from being a new mom, filled with optimism and a fierce protective instinct, to becoming an experienced mom who embraces the chaos of family life. It highlights the evolution of motherhood, celebrating the practical wisdom and resilience that come with time, while acknowledging the bittersweet nostalgia for the early days of parenting.
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