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Gigi Ross

Today, I have the pleasure of sharing with you the awesomely wonderful and ever mentoring GiGi, of A Kludgy Mom. GiGi is the true living example of sisterhood through motherhood. She is not only a fabulous writer with her hands into about just about everything on the inter-webs these days ( she’s an overachiever folks), she has been a rock solid mentor for me. I’ve never met someone who has so little time but has such a giant heart that she is makes time to be generous with her time to help a friend. If you don’t already follow her, you are doing yourself a great disservice. She is witty, snarky, deep and amazing…depending on the day. Basically, she is always worth a read and a follow. Please check her out. Thank you GiGi for sharing your Truths about Motherhood today and helping me celebrate my 2 year Blogiversary. XO Debi

 

Kludgy Mom

 

 

Dear Deb wanted me to write about MY truths about motherhood.

Do we have a year?

We are giant figures in the lives of our children, and yet, we are just a tiny thread in the quilt that is the community of mothers.

What do I know about motherhood? I know this.

There will always be a woman who had an easier childbirth than you.  There will always be a woman who didn’t feel the baby come out, didn’t need drugs, cut her own umbilical cord and perhaps even performed her own c-Section while listening to Mozart and having her toes done by the in-hospital pedicurist.

There will always be a woman who had a more difficult childbirth than you. There will always be someone who was torn farther, bled more, went into labor earlier, had stronger contractions, and took a bigger dump than you. In front of a movie-star handsome ob-gyn.

And then, one day, the kid grows up, and none of that matters.

There will be times in the early days of motherhood that you drown in self-doubt. You will beat yourself up because you couldn’t breastfeed. You will beat yourself up because you’d like to take a break from nursing but can’t. You agonize over whether formula will cause your firstborn to grow up just like Jon Gosselin. You agonize over whether you will be ridiculed because you’ve chosen to breastfeed until your baby is 3 or 4.

And then, one day, the kid grows up, and none of that matters.

There will be moments where you secretly (or obviously) applaud yourself as your child achieves developmental milestones. You puff your chest out as you are congratulated at your toddler’s good behavior. You wear a self-satisfied grin as people call you a good parent. Because you know you are.

There will be moments when you are looked at funny because your kid is thrashing around on the floor at the mall because you wouldn’t buy her an Icee. You ignore whispers of “it’s all the parent’s fault.” You wonder where you went wrong.

And then, one day, the kid grows up, and none of that matters.

There will be times when you feel like every single minute of the day is a battle, your enemy tiny and silent. You will consider forcing food down his throat to get him to eat. You will bribe. You will time-out. You will spank, even though you swore you wouldn’t.

There will be times when your kid eats so much you can’t believe you raised such a greedy, gluttonous, insatiable pig. You will watch with disdain as giant hunks of steak and ice cream and broccoli get shoveled into his hungry mouth.

And then, one day, the kid grows up, and none of that matters.

There will be plans you develop to teach your kid the building blocks of learning, to stimulate curiosity.You flash card. You read. You sing in the car. You count peas. You take him to Sylvan at 13 months of age demanding why he doesn’t know his phone number yet.

There will be times that you are so damn tired of your kid asking why Santa wears red, why a beetle is called a beetle, how a remote control turns the TV on, whether he can dismantle his Nintendo with a screwdriver and who is Lady Gaga.

And then, one day, the kid grows up, and none of that matters.

In the end, it all boils down to one universal truth, doesn’t it?

Kids grow up.

Kids are born. We are offered the job of mothering. We accept.

They eat. They sleep. They grow. They learn. Much of it with our guidance, and much of it truly on their own.

We do the best we can.

Our obsessive focus on the minutiae of each mothering moment – positive or negative – seems silly in hindsight. Once-agonizing decisions that consume hours of our day fade into the blurred mosaic of memory. We are just moms.

Kids grow up. And none of that other stuff matters. Moms grow up, too.

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