School is back in session, and with it, my daily routine of driving kids to and from activities has resumed. As my youngest jumps into the car, she’s bubbling over with tales of a raccoon named Benny causing chaos at her preschool, handing out candy. I have my doubts about Benny being real, but I nod along, my focus split between her chatter and the road ahead. I’m just cruising along like a Robot Mom, ticking off the next stop on my mental checklist.
It takes me a moment to register when she asks, “Isn’t that so funny, Mommy?” I respond with a half-hearted laugh, “Oh? Yes, it’s hilarious!” Robot Mom doesn’t even know what she agreed to.
As I navigate the familiar route, which takes us past the local grocery store and the neighborhood park—where I barely notice one house is up for sale and another has a new porch—I arrive at the second school to pick up my middle child. He doesn’t hop in; he slinks into the car, embodying the classic middle school demeanor. The roles have switched: I fire off questions like, “Did you turn in your notecards?” and he responds with a curt nod. “Who did you sit with at lunch?” “The usual,” he replies. “Did you at least have a good day?” I get an eye roll and a slight smile in return.
It’s clear we’re both irritated by this exchange. I grip the steering wheel tighter, crank up the radio, and slip back into Robot Mom mode.
Moments later, a squabble breaks out between my youngest and my middle child because she’s singing too loudly. He complains he’s heard the song a million times. I stare straight ahead, knowing I’ve heard it just as often. I offer a lazy parental intervention, “Oh, just stop it, you guys.” Did I even say that out loud? Apparently, it didn’t work, as my youngest continues to sing, and my middle child remains grumpy.
We make our way to the third school to pick up my oldest, who bounds into the car with enthusiasm. “Hi, guys!” she chirps, then launches into a monologue about sharks—how they have rows of teeth and some eat plankton. My middle child, catching her mistake, corrects, “It’s plankton.”
“Oh, good! And did you know a shark has 100 babies and it makes poo?” she exclaims, bursting into giggles. Suddenly, the mood shifts; laughter fills the car, and the tension dissolves. My youngest stops singing, and my middle child is no longer sulking.
At that moment, I feel the need to reclaim my role as their mom. I turn off the music and join their conversation, listening and chiming in with encouragement. In this whirlwind of daily life, it’s easy to slip into Robot Mom mode. As the kids grow, they don’t need me to the same extent they did when they were toddlers. Now, I can take a breath and sometimes let my mind wander, but when they’re right there, engaged and excited, I need to be present.
Motherhood has never been on autopilot, so why should it start now? I’ve fought for these kids since before they were born, through countless appointments and sleepless nights. I’ve shared in their triumphs and struggles. Even when I feel like just their driver, chef, or planner, what they need most is for me to be their mom.
Someday, my backseat will be quiet, and I won’t hear any stories from school. I won’t see those eager eyes looking back at me. I’ll miss the joyful chaos that fills this space. For now, though, that backseat is a vibrant, messy, beautiful part of our journey together. It serves as a place for connection and learning, where I can model how to engage with the world.
I know there will be days when I revert to Robot Mom, but I hope to catch myself in time to embrace those moments that matter—like learning a fun fact about sharks.
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Summary
This article reflects on the challenges and joys of motherhood and the importance of being present for our children, even amidst the busyness of daily life. It emphasizes the need for genuine engagement over robotic routines, celebrating the connection we share with our kids.