Parenting

“Then why are you so worried about the scale?” Why was I? I had finally let go of the scale as an indicator of my own health, but my inability to do the same when it came to my daughter was bringing up the same old feelings of inadequacy and frustration.

Parenting is not easy. It’s really hard — even more so for single parents. I can only guess that parents are frustrated with being parents. I imagine it’s frustrating to watch people like me take a 2-hour nap whenever they want, when all you want is five minutes to go to the bathroom alone.

I have 14 body piercings, a rib tattoo, a thigh tattoo, an inner wrist tattoo, two “tramp stamps” (and, yes, both were acquired when I was 18), and a full sleeve. In fact, I have more tattoos than I can count, since most of my pieces meld right into the next. But you know what? My piercings don’t make me masochistic, a degenerate, or some sort of delinquent. My tattoos don’t make unemployable. And my body modifications definitely do not make me a “bad mom.”

When I found myself suddenly not working 50 hours a week, I had no idea what to do with myself. But as my family eased into this new normal and found our rhythm, I’ve figured out a few things.

I vividly recall standing in front of the bathroom mirror looking at myself as I’d done countless times as a childless person. As myself. As the woman I’d always been until days before. It was like stumbling upon an identical twin I never knew I had — the same, so well-known, yet so alien and unfamiliar.

Back when we decided to have a baby together, we had a plan. She was never, ever going to have to work full-time. She was going to work part-time, and I was going to work part-time, selling dog food at that cute little store I used to work at. We would have one day off a week in common, and we would be broke, but we would get by. We would be tired, but we would be happy.

I think that before I actually became a mom, I dreamt of sick days to be filled with breakfasts in bed, handwritten notes with all the words spelled wrong, and misshapen pancakes — but the reality is far from that dream. I'm flustered just thinking about it.

I’m full of emotions: pride, awe, fear, nerves. The spelling bee first, then the piano recital. Two different kids, same mom. Same me, wanting to prevent my boys from pain and discomfort. Same me, biting my tongue and smiling broadly in support.