I’ve always had a bit of a control issue. From the start, I refused to bottle feed any of my kids, insisting on breastfeeding them like they were permanently glued to me (which, in a way, they were). I embraced those chaotic days of wandering around in milk-stained pajamas, half-awake with children clinging to me like little koalas. I didn’t want any help, fully immersed in my own martyrdom, spending hours rocking, soothing, and carrying my little ones as they napped on my hip or in my lap.
As they grew, I often found myself longing for the previous year—wishing for the time when my 4-year-old was still 3, or when my youngest was still too small to run off on his own. I worried they were growing up too fast, and I was the quintessential smother mother, thriving on little sleep, yet relishing every moment of it.
Reflecting on the mother I once was—the one who stalked the nursery school halls, volunteered for every project, and baked cupcakes for no reason other than it was Tuesday—I’m amazed at how much I’ve evolved.
Now, my boys are 14, 11, and 8 years old, navigating high school, middle school, and third grade. While they still require my assistance with countless tasks, I also expect them to take care of themselves more often. And when they don’t, I’m no longer the sweet, nurturing mom—I’ve morphed into the cranky, nagging version of myself. “Hurry up and shower!” I’ll shout when they drag their feet. “Pick up your stuff!” and “Get it yourself!” have become staples in my vocabulary. I’ve ditched the sugarcoating; I expect things to get done, and my patience is running thin.
It might sound selfish, but I’ve turned a corner. I’m embracing this new phase of life where I focus on myself again. Writing has become a passion, but it demands time, and if I’m constantly reminding my kids of their chores, I won’t get to enjoy my fabulous chair in my writing room.
I no longer crave their constant closeness (though a good hug is always welcome). I want them to be more self-sufficient so I can reclaim my independence. I want them to take on more responsibilities, allowing me to do less.
Sometimes, it makes me feel guilty when I remember how emotional I was when my eldest stopped clutching his stuffed animals or when my youngest headed to school without shedding a tear for me. I used to host playdates just to keep the kids close, but now I find comfort in knowing they’re occupied at a friend’s house. Back then, I needed to feel needed, but nowadays, I often relish the quiet moments alone, focusing solely on myself.
I know that eventually, my wonderful boys won’t always be around, and I’ll miss those days when they ask me to whip up an egg sandwich or find their baseball pants. I’ll look back fondly on how present I was in their lives and how available I made myself for them.
But for now, I just need them to pick up their mess.