Things I Don't Do

Survival Tips for New Mothers

There are few miseries more demoralizing than a mother failing to live up to her own expectations. I know this, because I spent my early years of parenting in absolute agony.

I had big plans. Big plans based on book smarts but zero experience.

My first baby hit me like a brick in the face. Or perhaps it was like two bricks in the crotch, since the average brick weighs four point five pounds and my son was just shy of nine. I mistakenly believed motherhood would come naturally. Instead, my experience was more like a Nature Documentary. 

[Imagine a lively Australian narrator]: A young mother hurries into the nursery, her nipples leaking, her bathrobe bunching into her postpartum panties. She leans over the bassinet to calm her crying babe, his face red, screams piercing. She cradles him in her arms, bouncing up and down, up and down. Notice her back arch, the tired muscles seizing in pain. Though she continues her calming efforts, her young babe is not persuaded. His cries escalate, until the mother begins crying herself. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Who will outlast the other? Find out next time on…

You get the gist. Two additional babies and four bricks later, my expectations have changed. At some point, between the crumbs and chaos, I gave up on becoming the mother I meant to be. Instead, I am learning to embrace the mother I need to be. For my kids. For my husband. And for myself.

So in the spirit of Shauna Niequist, from her book Bittersweet, I present my very own list of Things I Do and Things I Don’t Do: the Motherhood Edition. 

Things I Do:

Let’s start on a high note. I tell my kids about God every single day. Our mornings start with a prayer at the breakfast table, my kids alternating who gives the blessing. Listening to their little voices lift up to Heaven is the fuel I need after unceasing 6:30 a.m. wakeup calls. There is a chalkboard on the kitchen wall where I write our family memory verses. I can’t say I’m consistent about teaching them, but the scripture is there as an offering over every meal. 

I pray over my kids on the way to school, our hands forming a prayer circle in the middle of the van. I pray for patience for me and protection for them. I take my kids to church on Sundays, unless somebody is sick. And my husband reads them a Bible story each evening, right before we sing “Jesus Loves Me” and tuck them into bed. 

And now for a low note. I think poop jokes are hilarious. It could be my middle class upbringing or the endless problems with my derriere, but I will laugh every time my oldest tells the Knock Knock Joke that concludes with “poop pooped on your head.” My husband is horrified, but I cannot bring myself to care. My kids and I will continue to giggle at fart sounds on Alexa while my husband researches etiquette classes online.

Continuing with the poop theme, I potty trained all of my kids at or before the age of two. It’s the magical age. Once they could piece together their ABCs, I pulled out the potty seat. Then I handed out little prizes until all the number ones and twos made their way into the great porcelain underground. Please don’t ask me for recommendations for Pull-Ups, because I don’t have any. But I can recommend the book Oh Crap! Potty Training and answer questions for fellow parents who are in the middle of potty training meltdowns.

To reiterate, I bribe my kids to use the potty, sleep through the night, and to eat green veggies. Hot Wheels, chocolate chips, and glow sticks, whatever it takes. 

I yell too much. Caring for three kids requires endless creativity. I start the days with the best intentions, but I lose my sh*t at 5.00 p.m.

My kids eat Corn Syrup. I’ve bought the healthy fruit snacks for our morning car rides, but the ones with cartoon characters taste the best. 

On the weekends, I allow TV before breakfast. My husband heads straight into the kitchen to make waffles with warm syrup, and I snuggle up with my three favorites in front of Paddington or Spidey and His Amazing Friends.

Lastly, I tell my kids I love them. I tell them as often as I can, hoping when I leave for Heaven one day, my kids remember.

Things I Don’t Do:

While “I love you” might be my most repeated phrase, “whining is not how we get our way” is a close second. I do not give into my kids’ fits. And there are many. Our house has an unending supply of big feelings, and I have a limited supply of energy. I attempt to apply gentle parenting techniques but sometimes revert to the parenting style from my childhood and pull rank. 

I don’t wash panties that have been pooped in. I have no regrets.

I don’t shop in a physical store unless I have to. I will always hate the pandemic, but I am forever grateful for the advent of Target Drive Up. No longer must I trudge through a store with three kids who randomly run, shriek, and pull items off shelves. I can sit leisurely in a parking spot, listen to the Cocomelon soundtrack, and wait for a kind employee to place my precise order in my trunk. 

I rarely pick out my kids’ clothes. My oldest likes character tees and sport shorts. My middle prefers patterned polos and a fedora. And my daughter refuses to wear the pretty princess shirts I purchased, choosing her brothers’ hand-me-downs instead. Unless we’re headed to church or it’s school picture day, I don’t care what they wear.

Finally, I refuse to miss my kids’ bedtime. My house runs more smoothly when everyone gets the right amount of sleep. I kiss my kids goodnight at 7:30 p.m. and don’t see them again until 6:30 a.m. One day, they will stay up late to marvel at the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Or we’ll play board games until the ball drops on New Year's Eve. But right now, my house is quiet in the evenings. My kids sleep soundly, and I enjoy an hour of uninterrupted screen time, folding laundry, and eating brownies in peace.

Ultimately, I know it’s not a perfectly executed list that will have a lasting impact on my family. It’s the familiar jokes that make us laugh on our disappointing days. It’s the crackle of fruit snack wrappers in well-loved hands. It’s the retelling of the birth of baby Jesus for the fiftieth time before being tucked into bed. The same God who aided a mother with an unexpected child two thousand years ago offers to help me mother my own young children today.

This essay was inspired by Shauna Niequist’s essay “Things I Don’t Do” in her book Bittersweet. Click here to read the next one in the series.

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash