Toddler Adventures: Life According to Mom

Forget skydiving and mountain climbing—parenthood might be the most challenging activity of all

By Lesley Hilts

I left Target the other day with my 3-year-old son. He was decorated in red Icee from his face to his feet. It was the third or fourth time he dumped his drink all over himself and the cart. You would think I would learn by now, but my choice always seems to be “tantrum now” or “tantrum later.” Those of you who have never had children are probably thinking (as I always did before blessed with my own) that I must be out of my mind, catering to the whims of a tiny tyrant. Surely a good parent would not cave so easily to the fits of such a small human being? To you I say, “Ha!”

Pretty much every sin I’ve ever witnessed being committed by some frazzled, harried parent, I have done myself. Eating in front of the TV? Check. Snot running down a dirty face in public? Check. Turning on a kid’s movie when I need a break? Check. Baby running around the yard in a soggy, sagging diaper? Check. Fast food for dinner? Check. Bribery to get them to shut up in public? You bet! The list goes on.

I could fall back on the excuse that I am a full-time, working, single mom (by choice, I might add), but I am pretty sure, given the strength of my son’s will and the sheer exhaustion brought on by parenting, I would be committing many cardinal parenting sins no matter what the circumstances.

Motherhood is not for the squeamish. You become intimately acquainted with bodily functions, none of them your own. You recognize the “potty” dance when others think your child suffers from ADD. You think nothing of wiping snot off a face with your sleeve or catching chewed-up food in your hand.
You wear spit up and food smudges like an accessory. The slightest cough or unusual noise wakes you from a deep sleep. Barney really does become your friend. You willingly read the same story over and over again. You truly do think your child is the cutest kid on the planet. You become the proverbial protective parent, willing to do anything to keep your child from harm. I once chased a guy through the alley (he was running, I was in my car) after he had the audacity to grab my purse. I can only attribute my fierce anger and my need to run him down (I didn’t) to instinct and the burning desire to keep my son safe.

Because I adopted my son, I missed out on the night sweats, the hormonal fluctuations, the intense food cravings, and the inability to find a comfortable resting spot for my enormous belly. I traded all these experiences for an 11-month paper pregnancy fraught with delays, miscommunication, sleepless nights, and endless worries about whether or not he would ever come home. When, at 11 months, I finally settled him into his brand-new crib, I sat down and wept. The weeks of waiting, the long flights to and from his birth country, and the sheer magnitude of what I was doing finally caught up with me. Yes, I was ecstatic that he was finally home. Yes, I was thrilled to finally be a mom. But, tired, exhausted, and overwhelmed, the first thought that crept into my mind was, “What the hell have I done?”

I carried him constantly, and, because the only way he would sleep was if I rocked him, I developed carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists. While there were certainly many moments of laughter and joy, those first few months were difficult for both of us.

When I first set out to adopt, I pictured myself with a sweet little girl in frilly dresses. I would name her Emma after my great-grandmother. We would have tea parties. I would take her to the ballet. I would paint her room green and purple. I would pass on my doll collection to her. There were many scenarios I imagined for the two of us, so I was rather surprised to hear myself say to the adoption agency, “I would love to have a boy!”

My life is now filled with Thomas the Train Engine, Lightening McQueen and Chick Hicks. Trying to teach my son how to pee standing up reduces me to hysterical laughter (and mortifies him). If there was ever a case for genetics trumping environment, my son is it. I am the consummate princess, and he is all boy. He loves cars, talking about poo poo and pee pee, racing full speed through the house, jumping off furniture and screaming at the top of his lungs for no reason at all. He hits first and thinks later. He talks constantly about everything and nothing. I rarely get a moment to myself. We jump in puddles together and go to the zoo to see lions and tigers. He is afraid of monsters, but is comforted by the fact that his mommy will “Beat the monsters up and put them in the garbage!” Other kids draw pictures of their mommies cleaning the house and cooking, but my son draws me mowing the lawn and using a hammer. He is defiant and strong-willed, but melts my heart when he says, “Mommy, I need a big hug.” He is obstinate and soft-hearted. He is both the most difficult and the greatest thing about my life.

I was never the kind of person who flocked to small children. You know the type: Toddlers make them drool, and babies send them into apoplexy. They coo and fawn and fall all over every child that comes into their hemisphere. In fact, I was rather ambivalent about the whole idea of having children. No one was more surprised than I was to discover that motherhood really is a pinnacle experience. It genuinely is (cliché, please!) a love like no other. As Mother’s Day approaches once again, I am eternally grateful to my son for showing me what it means to be a mother, and to my own mother for putting up with me. This month as you tend to the rituals of spring, do not forget to give your mother a hug. If you can’t do that, grab some random mom on the street and thank her for all she’s done. Happy Mother’s Day!