The fact that Erin was able to narrow this list down to five astounds me. – Jordan
Five Things I Don’t Want Anyone on the Internet to Know About How I Parent My Child
Ah, the Internet, the mostly mythical village where mothers come seeking support, and mostly click off feeling mildly judged and crisply jealous of someone else’s postpartum abs. If you’re looking for another article about why you should’ve breastfed for three more years (too late now) or you’re fishing for a panic attack spawned by another global tragedy, the Internet would like you to take a seat in its wide lap.
The Internet is also a place where we can choose the parts of ourselves, our days, that we wish to present. We can be sure that all of our photos only show us from the waist up, share articles from the New Yorker that makes us seem impossibly intelligent, and #humblebrag about how we spent the day with our kids going on adventures because we are a Cool Mom. Despite what I share, I am usually wearing yoga pants, reading about some trashy political scandal, and contemplating why Legoland even exists.
Here are some of the things I don’t generally share on the internet about how this whole parenting thing is going:
1. My daughter (16 months) does not care what I cook for dinner, and she would mostly prefer a handful of Saltine crackers, a Strawberry Chobani, and an applesauce pouch. She will eat: spaghetti or pizza. She will not eat: vegetables, most fruits, something she loved last week, anything I put effort into preparing, things that are not Strawberry Chobani, applesauce, or crackers. Sometimes I still try to get her to eat a tiny broccoli tree, or whatever I made for myself, or some mango chunks, but mostly? Yogurt. I’m tired.
2. For a full hour a day, Bubble Guppies is on. My pediatrician and most Internet articles recommend 0 hours of screen time per day for babies under two, information that I have filed in my mental rolodex under “F” for “Fuck that.”
By 6 or 6:30pm, I am exhausted. I’ve gotten my daughter ready for daycare and dropped her off, worked all day, cleaned up the house, made dinner, done laundry, picked her up, taken her to the playground, read her books, played with her toys, fed her dinner, walked the dog, given my daughter a bath, and now I am DONE. The most magical things happen when I turn on Bubble Guppies: my daughter is happy, silent, and cuddles with me. I can look at my phone for a while. After a few minutes, she goes off and plays with her toys and half-watches, waits for a song to come on so she can dance. Dear Internet, it is paradise.
3. I feed my child the poisonous white cubic granules of pure evil, a.k.a sugar. Sometimes (every day), I want ice cream. Usually, I wait until my daughter goes to bed so I can enjoy my cookie dough cone in peace, but sometimes she’s around, and when she is, I give her some.
Last month we were out on Long Island visiting my parents and had a hell of a day; we walked around and around, from the park to the library and back again in the stifling heat. I stopped at Carvel on the way home for my signature small vanilla cone half-coated in rainbow sprinkles. My daughter stared me down from her stroller as we sat out front, and I let her take some drippy bites. A couple of 5-year-olds approached us. “You’re not supposed to feed ice cream to a baby,” one of them said. I stopped mid-bite and stared at them. DId I just get trolled by a child? I rage-fed the baby more ice cream as I walked away.
4. My child has hit, pinched, and slapped other children. I used to judge the mothers of the vicious, willful babies who bit and smacked my innocent little cherub. Now I know better, because now my baby does it, too. It doesn’t mean she’s going to grow up to torture squirrels in the backyard, it means she wants that goddamn tractor your baby is hoarding. Then she wants to hug your baby and say “sorry” even though she’s not. She actually just wants that tractor please, and what is this bizarre cultural custom?
5. The biggest relief I feel all day is the hour I have alone after she goes to bed. Remember alone time? I don’t. Sure, I’m alone when I’m working, but that’s not what I mean. I mean feet-up-on-the-ottoman, watching-Real-Housewives, drinking-a-beverage, wearing-cut-off-sweatshorts-and-a-grubby-T-shirt, playing-Candy-Crush-Soda, and scratching-your-butt alone time. I live for this hour, every day. Do I love spending time with my daughter? Yes. Do I want her to go the fuck to sleep? Yep.
Having babies requires a physical, emotional, and practical rearrangement of our bodies, minds, and lives. In the 16 months that my daughter has lived on this earth, I’ve given myself enough shit for not being immediately perfect for a lifetime. I open up that Facebook tab and scroll, seeing nothing but happy babies cooing into their homemade vegetable purees. Either that is total bullshit, or please give me the number of your therapist.
I’m guilty of it, too. For every picture I post of my daughter eating Chana Masala (there are zero), she has had 47 Chobanis. When she smacks a 2-year-old in the arm for not moving fast enough, I will post of waist-up photo of us at the pool, smiling.
Just for today: here is the truth. This is what motherhood is like. It’s a constant cycle of letting go of my need to control outcomes, of my desire to do more, be perfect from now on. It’s about forgiving myself for wanting to put the TV on and snuggle with my daughter instead of engaging her in some pre-planned, stimulated learning activity. It’s about giving her bites of ice cream even though the other moms haven’t given their babies ice cream yet. It’s about forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness.
(I forgive you, too, Internet).
Erin Williams is a writer, illustrator, and mother living in New York. She believes that yogurt + goldfish is a balanced meal for toddlers, sweatpants can be fancy, and art is a daily practice. Her first book, The Big Fat Activity Book For Pregnant People (cowritten with Jordan Reid), is available for preorder.
