Motherhood, story time, and the magic in the mess
I’m never going to be one of those mothers who have it all together.
I’ll always be the one rushing out the door in a frenzy, my kid’s socks halfway off, his hair sticking up in every direction, wondering what I forgot this time. Yesterday morning was no exception. We were trying to get to story time — my big plan to do something “special” on my one morning off — and it was pure chaos.
As I frantically tried to get us both ready, I had a realization: motherhood is messy. It’s full of guilt and questioning, of moments where you feel like you’re doing everything wrong. It’s also full of magic — like the moment we finally made it, two minutes late, squeezed into the back of the room while Caleb stared in wonder at the singing and dancing around him.
As a working mom, I often feel like I’m missing out. I envy the stay-at-home moms who seem to have endless time for crafts and playdates while I clock in and out of work each day. So on Tuesdays, when I go in late, I try to make the most of it. I thought taking Caleb to story time would be one of those special things — something that would make up for everything else I miss. But it didn’t feel so special when I was wrestling him into his skeleton onesie while he screamed, then trying to shower while he wailed from the other room.
By the time we got in the car, I was frazzled and frustrated. He screamed the whole way there, and I muttered under my breath that this would be the last time I tried something like this. In my head, every other mom was already there — calm, smiling, fully prepared — while I was the hot mess rolling in late with a screaming baby and a fraying sense of optimism.
When we walked in, I felt like a fraud. I was in my work clothes, surrounded by women in leggings and ponytails who looked like they’d been there for hours. They knew all the songs. I didn’t. I wondered if I belonged.
But Caleb paid attention. He watched. He smiled. And by the time we left, I thought maybe — just maybe — we’d come back again.
Maybe I’m a mess of a mother. But maybe… so are they. Maybe the moms who look polished were also running late. Maybe their kids screamed too. Maybe they muttered the same thing under their breath in the car. Maybe the truth is, none of us really have it together — we just get better at hiding it.
Maybe some of those moms looked at me and thought I was the one who had it all together.
Maybe I am enough.
Maybe it doesn’t matter how we compare or how chaotic it gets. Maybe what matters is that we showed up. That our kids are growing, and happy, and well-loved. That we keep trying, even on the messy mornings. Even when we feel like we’re falling short.
Because maybe there’s beauty in the mess too — in the trying, in the chaos, in the way we love our kids fiercely, even when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.
Maybe the mess is the point.
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