My Mother Was...

There are days when I find myself wondering what kind of mother my kids will remember me to be. 

Will they remember the mom who tried her best to balance work and home life? The one who sometimes seemed distant or the one who always had a camera in hand, documenting every moment and never missing a chance to write in the baby books? Will they remember the mom who cried at every milestone and school drop-off? Or perhaps the one who hurried them out the door, seemingly unfazed by the chaos?

Sometimes, I wonder if maybe I am two different mothers- one for them, and one for myself. 

If I’m honest, there are days when I feel like I’m juggling 20 different versions of myself, all in one body. Some days I’m patient, loving, and kind; other times, I feel uninteresting or disconnected. One moment I’m dancing around the kitchen to “Who Let the Dogs Out,” and the next, I’m desperate for some quiet, craving “me” time.

I wonder if they’ll remember the times I cried for no apparent reason—sitting on the couch or silently in the car, feeling empty and sad. My boys, even when I tried to hide it, always noticed. They’d come over and hug me when I cried, no questions asked. They’d touch me with love, even as I wrestled with my depression and feelings of being overwhelmed. I wonder if that version of me, the one who struggles and feels raw, will leave the most lasting impact.

Will they remember the mom who yelled in frustration over the madness of our house, or the one who quietly cleaned up spilled cereal without a word? Will they remember when I said, “It’s okay, mistakes happen- it's all good,” or will they remember the times when I lost my temper over the smallest things? (Seriously, postpartum depression can be brutal, y’all).

I think when we first become mothers, we all have this image of the "perfect" mother, that we strive to achieve...

A mom who never yells, who makes homemade cookies without one complaint, who makes sure everything in their white home is spotless, and who is a disciple of the positive parenting technique. We imagine a version of ourselves that always remains calm and patient, no matter what. But then, reality hits.

We quickly realize that we aren't one dimensional, motherhood isn't one dimensional. 

We are still humans. We are not perfect and neither is motherhood. We cry, we get frustrated, we lose our cool, and sometimes, we just need a break. We are still human, living life and this chapter of life for the very first time, navigating the emotional rollercoatser of raising raising tiny humans, who are also learning to navigate their own emotions. We thought so naively, that maybe we would never be irritated with our children, or frustrated about the endless messes. We would bake cookies in the kitchen and never once be mad about the eggs and flour all over the floor.

I guess we were all hoping that somehow, someway, we would become these perfect people, never quick to anger, cool tempered always...

And you know what? I have come to realize a very important truth: it's okay to be human. It's okay to show out children that like them, we too, are not perfect.

Our children need to see us cry, yell, stand up for the injustices, sleep and be happy, dance and be sad. They need to see us working through our emotions so that they understand that they can work through theirs- that it's okay to feel and express their own. That what they feel, go through, and encounter, is "normal." But damn, it can be bothersome, knowing that some of those negative moments will stick with them forever.

It can be so easy to torture ourselves with the thoughts of which memories they will have of me once I am gone. 

Will they remember the joyful moments- our game nights, trips to the park, and snuggles on the couch watching their favorite movies? Or will they recall the mom that sometimes-put other things first and assigned chores after a long, busy day?

In a perfect world, I want them to remember all of me- the 20 versions of me- of moms that I am- because that's what makes me complex and human, that's what makes me, Mom. 

I hope they remember not only the happy times but also the tough ones, because the hard moments helped make the good ones that much sweeter. If they remember the version of me that struggled with depression and anxiety, I hope they remember how fiercely I fought for them, every single day.

As mothers, we often torture ourselves with guilt, thinking we’re not doing enough or being enough. But what I truly hope my kids remember is that I was real.

I stuck to my values and lived life to the fullest. I gave them a home filled with love, even if it wasn’t always perfect. 

I hope they remember the big heart I gave to them, sometimes taking things too seriously, but always being there for them—emotionally and physically.

And when they look back, I hope they’ll see a home full of memories—laughter, tears, learning, and growing—together. Because that’s the life we lived.

A life where we felt everything, learned everything, and experienced it all side by side.

Cheers to this messy, beautiful, complicated journey of motherhood. 💕

XO, Kelleen