A Mom’s Unscripted Life

Tag: #mommyhood

  • Potty Training Chronicles

    So, we embarked on the adventure of potty training my oldest son, Ted. Picture this: I’m still on maternity leave, and my mom, bless her, looks after the kids while I work. Childcare costs these days could make anyone cry, and let’s face it, who can you trust more than your mom? Anyway, day one of potty training started with a bang—or should I say, a flush. The first two pees hit the target, and I even intercepted a potential disaster before it happened. I was ushering Ted to the bathroom every thirty minutes like clockwork, tablet in tow for a bit of entertainment.

    I’ve decided not to move the potty to any other room, because plumbing isn’t optional—it’s not a traveling act. But by the third bathroom trip, Ted was over it. Bored out of his little mind, he found his mischievous streak. While I was in the midst of feeding my other son, Ted somehow Houdini-ed his way out of his romper and diaper, and peed on the carpet by the back door. All this happened just five feet away, with me blissfully unaware thanks to the cacophony of tablets, TVs, barking dogs, and Ted’s adorable gibberish. No biggie, I thought, just another day in the life of a multitasking mom. Cleaned him up, changed him, and tackled the rug like a champ—though I did suspect the dogs of egging him on with some sort of secret dog-baby alliance.

    Next up: another misfire. This time, Ted’s aim was a bit off, resulting in a foot soak for me. I couldn’t help but laugh while trying not to cry as I congratulated him on hitting at least part of the target. But the pièce de résistance was the grande finale: the diaper blowout. The sight of that chunky masterpiece almost made me toss the underwear altogether. In a moment of “What would Grandma do?”, I threw Ted back into a fresh diaper and headed straight for the toilet with the offending garment, scrubbing and rinsing while simultaneously trying to cry and laugh my way through it.

    Finally, with one hour left until Dad returned to tag in, I was ready to surrender. And there you have it—a day in the glamorous life of potty training. Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode!

  • Breastfeeding

    So, new moms, if you’re considering breastfeeding, let me be your herald of hard truths: it’s not for the faint of heart. When it comes to a baby trying to latch on to a nipple, my best comparison would definitely be a baby bird fighting for a worm in the ground. There’s the wide-eyed determination, the tiny little mouth opening in search, and let’s not forget, the flapping—minus the feathers, but definitely with plenty of adorable chaos! With my first son, I thought I was ready. I bought all the books, read everything there was to read, interrogated experienced moms, and even sat through a lactation class. Yet, when he arrived, all those tips and tricks turned into a swirl of confusion. The lactation nurse breezed in and instructed me to hold him like a football—apparently, he’d do the rest. Well, that might have been true when she placed him on me, but when I tried, it was like he’d found a much more interesting channel on a tiny invisible TV.

    Nobody warned me about the pain either. As if my boobs turning into rock-like pain sensors wasn’t enough, my uterus was staging its own protest march back to normal. After days of trying and failing, I switched to pumping—only to discover it was breastfeeding’s evil twin. Seriously, if the machine’s doing too much pulsing and not enough contracting at the wrong size, it’s like a medieval torture device. Physical intimacy moved to the back burner because, with my tender-as-porcelain bust, even imagining a breeze touching them was a ‘nope’ for me.

    Then, along came my second son, the sleeping, feeding wonder child. He latched on effortlessly like it was his superpower, and suddenly milk was flowing in 6-ounce increments instead of the paltry 1-2 ounces I sweated over with my first. With him, it was all about convenience—no more panicking over bottle temperature or cleaning the million tiny pieces that come with pumping. Though I still pump once or twice a day, it’s more of a friendly check-in than a full-blown session. Nights became a snuggle fest, with him and me both blissfully half-asleep on a Boppy pillow, ignoring the world.

    On the downside, my firstborn gave me major side-eye—a potent mix of jealousy and silent judgment that makes my mom guilt flare. We made it three months breastfeeding with him, while with his baby brother, we’re cruising past four. But here’s the big reveal: breastfeeding in public is not the scandal people make it out to be. Sure, there are occasional looks, but compared to the chaos of bottle feeding logistics, it’s a walk in the park with center-stage views of zero mummy meltdowns over forgotten formula. Who knew that simple, hassle-free and spontaneous wins the day?

  • Mommy 101

    I think the hardest part about being a mother is never really knowing if you’re doing the right thing for your child. Sure, there are books and countless posts from other moms, but sometimes it just feels like I’m flunking Motherhood 101. These thoughts often hit me amidst the endless whining of my 21-month-old toddler and the relentless back-and-forth with my 4-month-old baby.

    At work, you get feedback or at least some sort of direction. But as a mom, it’s a daily battle with unpredictable attitudes, dodging spoonfuls of unwanted peas, and, of course, becoming an unintentional expert in diaper forensics. I mean, who knew poop would demand such meticulous attention?

    Some days, it genuinely feels like my kids have teamed up, plotting in their secret baby code, to see how far they can push me before I morph into a cartoon character and start speaking in gibberish. Staying home on maternity leave has given me a peek into life as a Stay-At-Home Mom, and let me tell you, it’s no picnic. Being a working mom is tough too, but at least there’s the luxury of a coffee break without peas being hurled at you—and the occasional adult conversation that doesn’t involve negotiating nap times.

    It’s mainly the constant whining and the escape attempts when the toddler hears “no,” or when he gets jealous of the attention his baby brother’s getting. But some days are truly wonderful, filled with giggles and playtime that melt my heart. Yet, with those joys come the sneaky mom guilt and the pressing questions: “Am I doing this right?” “Am I a bad mother?”

    Honestly, if I manage to get through the day without turning my life into a slapstick comedy, I consider it a win.

    Take yesterday, for example: our day began like a rerun episode of “The Chaos Chronicles.” The baby was up first, crying out for his morning breastfeeding session while I desperately tried to remember what sleep felt like. After waking up, I changed him and nudged my husband out of bed to let the dogs out. He came back, and we embarked on the morning routine in the bed we share with our 21-month-old, who’s decided his bed just isn’t up to par, but that saga is for another day.

    Back in bed, I set up my little feeding station, nestled the baby, and just as I start feeding him, my husband masters the art of the ninja escape to go shooting with his buddies. At this point, my toddler’s sixth sense kicks in like clockwork, and he knows Dad’s left the building. Cue the screaming, and we’re off to the races.

    In a flash, both my toddler and I are undressing and leaping into the shower, hoping the water can drown out the whines. We emerge to the sounds of the baby crying in the bassinet, and the next phase of the morning circus begins. It’s dressing time, diaper time, teeth brushing, and baby retrieval timed to the second. I gather my glasses from the previous night, scoop up the essentials and the boys, and do my improvised balancing act down the stairs. I usually throw all the stray items into a garbage bag, strap the baby to me, and wait for the toddler to attach himself for the descent. That’s just the first hour.

    Next up in our reality show is breakfast, a daily gamble. The trick is not knowing what’s going to be “in” today. French toast? Nope. Eggs? Absolutely not. A bottle and yogurt-covered blueberries? Somehow, that’s an acceptable compromise. Meanwhile, I’ve become a “laptop mom,” because without a screen, my toddler transforms into a tiny bear with no respect for personal boundaries or parental sanity.

    With him temporarily pacified, I pour what feels like a life-preserving glass of coffee and coax the baby back onto the boob to halt any impending meltdown. And there you have it—just another day in the life, all before 8 AM.