Parenthood has altered my pace, but it’s still wild

Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund

Balancing my phone between my shoulder and my ear, I reached to grab my daughter before she pulled a fourth protein bar from the shelf at Hy-Vee, and I tossed the one I actually wanted into my cart as I asked my best friend from college about her new job.

Then I heard a crash.

My little girl had grabbed a tall soda from a nearby display and knocked it to the ground.

I quickly excused myself from the conversation to survey the damage.

My friend and I would have to catch up another day.

This is just one relatively calm example of my life after a small human entered it. It’s not an uncommon scenario for parents to try to balance way too many spinning plates (or protein bars) and end up in a mess.

Every stage of life has its challenges, and I should respect that.

I, too, used to think I was busy when I read books on my lunch break, exercised for hours, went out with my spouse regularly, tried new recipes, worked two jobs to clock 60 or more hours a week, wrote creative essays late at night, and kept up with several members of my huge family on my daily commute.

How one year, and one little extra electric heartbeat in the house changes things.

When I found out I was going to be a mom, I was excited, but my romanticism has limits.

I was happily married, employed, and open to having a child.

That’s a lot more than a lot of women can say when they see that positive pregnancy test. Even with such favorable circumstances on my side, within only three weeks of discovering I was pregnant, I faltered.

I wondered how I could possibly live the kind of nonstop life I’d created.

I knew that certainly, I couldn’t.

A year later, my days are still nonstop, just not how I would always choose them to be.

Instead of finishing a conversation, I’m running to the edge of a pool to make sure my little mermaid doesn’t realize she’s really a curious landlubber.

More often than I’d like to admit, I look at other parents who seem to have this multitasking thing figured out and I doubt I’ll ever get there.

Recently, I saw a trailer for the comedy, “Bad Moms.”

For those who haven’t, it’s easy to summarize the premise of the film.

It’s mothers sick of trying to have careers, clean homes, well-behaved and well-dressed children, friends, fitness, and happy marriages deciding to lower their standards.

They’re exhausted and ready to abdicate the responsibilities of their roles so they can party and forget the pressure.

With gross-out humor of Judd Apatow films, a moderately funny cast, and the real-life frustrations of parenting, it’s sure to attract young parents on a rare night off.

I’m tired and frequently disheveled, but I’m not quite ready to throw in the towel and be a “bad mom.” I know most of the stress I feel is self-inflicted, just like it was before I had a child.

At the end of a day, I often look at my clothes and wonder how I got some food item on the back of my shirt, or why I never finished applying makeup or doing my hair.

Then I remember I have a toddler who surprise hugs me with her mouth full, and I’ve been kiss-stamped with peanut butter, or curry, or dirt, whatever she’s had in her mouth most recently.

I shrug my shoulders and toss the shirt to the laundry basket, telling myself I’ll be more organized tomorrow — but knowing I’ll brush my hair and forget to eat lunch, or apply eyeliner, but my cardigan will still be wrinkled.