To the 50-Year-Old Me: Regrets in Motherhood

Today, I’m 36.

And today, I have three healthy, passionate, loving, fiery, crazed, lil’ girls. All at the glorious age of 5 and under. And there are other moms, MANY moms, actually, who stop me as I’m going about life with these three girls.

“I remember having kids that age. It sure was special.”

“Man, I miss those days.”

“Those are the best years.”

“If only MY kids could be that little again.”

“Enjoy it. They sure grow up fast.”

_______

I smile and nod as I aid the kids dripping off my shopping cart, and then barely catch the nearly toppling rack of French bread in time.

And then I move along.

_____________

These words are most often spoken to me by moms who are just a bit further down their mommying road.

But there’s this…this tone in their voices. This…subliminal messaging. This…seeming attempt to communicate beyond the actual words spoken in these chance encounters.

And it sounds a lot like…envy.

I hear it.

I’m sure I do.

It’s the voices of mothers trying to tell me that they wish they could be me. Even if just for a day. They want to be in my shoes because maybe they’ve seen that the grass isn’t greener on the other side.

They want to take those teenagers that are currently ruling their households, and turn them back into little toddlers.

Because right now, those teenagers are busy ignoring requests from them to be home for dinner (among other debatable choices). They’re arguing about curfews, and driving, and grades, and cell phones, and allowance, and… *gulp*… dates. They’re all emotional and messy and most likely super-smelly.

These moms wish they could again see those people how I still see mine: as these compact little humans. Tiny people with the CUTEST voices you’ve ever heard. With the most innocent of questions: Does Jesus get to ride on the train with us? and Can we move to London just in case Peter Pan wants to come by? The moms that stop me…they want to be back in this other time as they remember it, when the worries were about potty training accidents and car seat buckles and sunscreen and stairways.

_______

I hear them.

I do.

When moms further in the journey remind me to cherish every moment, I WANT to embrace the sentiment. I FULLY DESIRE to be the mom looking back with no regrets about how much I loved and enjoyed and appreciated my kids when they were little.

On some days, in an effort to internalize the sentiments that these moms share, it changes my behavior.

It actually works.

I stop doing the dishes and I choose to build a puzzle on the floor with one of my gals instead. When a sick babe falls asleep in my arms, I stare into her quiet face for as long as possible, trying to memorize the proportions that her squishy cheeks and feminine lips hold. Instead of shutting down the dance party in favor of bath time, I lovingly watch the same exact dance move and cheer for the 32nd time in a row. And then the 33rd.

When one of my kids turns “boneless,” I decide to laugh instead of getting riled up, because I know this is a phase.

And it will only be a few years before I will be sure to discover for myself that this phase is indeed a rather short one.

I’m not sure at what age I’ll be able to confirm this as truth, but as I toss a dart in the dark, I’m guessing, for me, I’ll be somewhere around age 50.

___________

Thinking of myself reflecting back on this stage of motherhood at age 50, carries with it a tremendous, and apparently very real, fear.

The possibility is gut-wrenching, cry-worthy. It’s body-aching.

It’s the possibility that my best efforts may not be good enough.

My insides HURT when I consider that as much as I try to soak in these moments while I have them right here in my hands, one day I may STILL long to have them back.

It’s possible. It’s certainly possible.

However.

HOWEVER.

There’s this…piece. This…other thing. This other “side” of things that sometimes, especially on the bad days, that I want to say, but don’t, in response to that well-intentioned grocery store mom.

Because the truth is, from where I sit, it’s difficult to imagine wishing for these days again.

Because this part of the mommy journey, you see, it has been hard.

_______

To the 50-Year Old Me

So I write this to you, the 50-year old me. The mom just down the road in this mommying journey:

And it’s DEFINITELY not going to be easy to hear, so brace yourself.

You’ve forgotten.

You THINK you remember accurately, and there are some things you surely do, but these years, well, it was…freaking hard. Almost, ALMOST impossible, you see.

Let me remind you.

There were days that you wondered if you and your sanity would both survive. Some days it seemed that for sure it would be one or the other. You questioned if perhaps motherhood would suck the life right outta you, right along with the sleep, and your emotions, and enthusiasm, and zest.

You wondered if your kids would survive (you know, with the silly putty in light sockets and all the swimming pools in the world, and the busy parking lots).

But also.

There were a bazillion poopy diapers. There were hours of screaming (sometimes in the same day). It seemed endless. There were years of misunderstanding requests and desires, limited by your kids’ expressive language abilities. There were sleepless nights. More than you could count. 

There were ill-fitting clothes, and poop in bathtubs, and chicken nuggets in the crevices of cars, and the tackling of siblings, and having to leave fancy dinners to come home to rescue a babysitter who accidentally pushed the “scream-fest” button on the preschooler.

You watched your husband hang his head out the window of the car (while driving, no less) to escape, just for a second, many-a car tantrum.

Over and over again, you held your breath while dumping rotten milk down the drain. (That was kind of your fault though, TBH).

You moved cereal to different colored bowls based on child preference, even when school was starting in 10 minutes and it’s a 9 minute drive.

You argued endlessly about wearing tank tops in December and princess dresses to preschool and stripes with polka dots and which order to brush hair versus teeth in.

You went on a million vacations that didn’t feel restful or like vacation at all, in fact. You spent tons and tons of money on water bottles and pacifiers because of the pacifier thief that is apparently out there evading capture as we speak. You threw away somewhere between 60 and 100 pairs of leggings with holes in them.

You managed so many incessant requests that there were times that you felt like even your mind wasn’t your own.

You gave time outs and ultimatums. You took away toys. You separated kids at mealtime. You asked for them to keep their hands to themselves on repeat. You repaired toy cars (and actual cars, actually), ornaments, bathtubs, drywall, toys, because clearly property isn’t valued the same when you’re a kid.

You watched sick kids get into ambulances.

You set aside your career for a logistically better situation for your family. One where you could eat every meal with your kids. And you did that. You did it.

But you struggled.

Every single day you struggled.

But every. single. day. you tried to listen to the voices.

Because there in those moments, those hard, hard moments, were those voices.

Those voices in the grocery store about cherishing the years.

About them growing up so fast.

About it all being gone in the blink of an eye.

About the days being “long, but the years are short.”

And.

And you knew.

You knew that one day, it would be over.

_______

To the 50-year-old me: read this.

And remember.

When you were 36, you KNEW that “babies don’t keep.”

You did your best to understand.

You snuggled all the extra snuggles possible. Every single chance you could, you stayed a few extra minutes when your baby asked to “Rocky, rocky just a minute” (as one gal would say for almost 6 months. When we were the most lucky).

And there were so, so many sweet moments. Moments of adorable questions and fun conversations, and glorious pretend play.

When you didn’t stay, it was because you COULDN’T. Maybe it was something physically, logistically, or emotionally keeping you from being able to stay, but each time, it was a good reason.

You did your best.

_______

To the 50-year-old me:

You may even forget what these years were like so much that you feel inclined to pass down the sentiment that babies don’t keep to a new-ish mom. And if that mom listens, but then stares back blankly, vacantly, then be reminded. She’s probably like you were.

She’s probably that mom oozing with gratitude to even BE a mom. But she’s overwhelmed.

Grateful, but disheveled.

Honored, but destroyed.

She’s tired.

But she, too, knows. She knows she has one chance with her little people and she’s doing it the best she can.

_______

And lastly, to the 50-year old me:

You will read this and, as feared, you will still want some parts of the early mommy years back, scream-fests and all.

But let’s agree on something. Instead of looking back with regret, it’s time to look ahead. You can’t change the past. And I hope, I pray, that you don’t want to. Because you did it. It was good.

Love your babies the best you can now, at 50.

Because you also loved them the best you could back then.

I promise. I was there. I saw it.

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Take this sentiment into the new year with me, mama.

XO.

Honestly,

AM ❤️

More About Me: Hi! I’m Ann Marie, a blogging mama of 3 tiny gals, and a wife to a busy Orthopedic Surgeon. You can find me right here each week, where I help women and mamas like you live your most joy-filled and beautiful lives! I’m inspired by so many topics, and I share them ALL with you: I’m talking home decor, motherhood, style, beauty, marriage (I see you other medical wives!) and more. Encouraging progress, not perfection. You’ll find me most active on Instagram or Facebook for life between blog posts. And I truly can’t wait to see you there, friend. ❤️💋

To connect, shoot me an email at honestlyannmarie@gmail.com ❤️