I was talking with a group of my smart friends who identify as mothers recently and we were lamenting that no one is telling our stories. I mean, no really is – unless they are selling us bleach or diapers or organic cotton baby bonnets but then, it’s only through uplifting commercials with cute moms and their babies.
To the mama wiping butts and wiping noses and wiping butts again; holding a babe who won’t nap anywhere but your arms, not even in the $120 baby carrier you Primed one sleepless night, I see you.
To the mother who is frustrated with the balancing of work, child care, finding help, asking for help, spinning plates that always feel just a hairsbreadth from toppling over, I see you.
To the mom wiping high chairs down 3 times a day, carefully steaming sweet potatoes into purees, wiping thrown foods up, swearing it isn’t about the broccoli, I see you.
To the parent trying to still be a person, outside of the butt wiping and sleep managing and hair falling out and tantrums and work-doing, I see you.