I used to be a supermom. Until my daughter was three years old, every day of her life included an hour of outdoor play, three organic meals, and at least twenty books. Screen time was out of the question until after her second birthday, and then it was limited to a half-hour per day. We worked constantly with both gentle discipline and early education: by two-and-a-half, she could give her name, age, phone number, and address-- and, just for the heck of it, she could recite the preamble and four Shakespearean soliloquies. I was "that" mom. I did everything right.
Yesterday, I was moving to a new apartment with my daughter. She was watching "My Little Pony" and eating potato chips while I placed her books on the shelf. As I organized some 700 children's books, I felt a pang of remorse realizing that some hadn't been read in a year or more. After my daughter had turned three, I had decided that she didn't need twenty books per day-- and, when she was three and a half, I went an entire day without reading to her for the first time in her entire life. Her massive collection of books, which I hoped would somehow validate my skills as a mother, was largely left unused.
It was in that moment that I realized that my days as a "supermom" are in the past. Over the last two years, I have gradually shifted away from being the manic mother who weighs vegetable servings for homemade baby food, reads parenting books after my kid goes to bed, and avoids nights-out like the plague. Now, I allow beds to go unmade and teeth to go unbrushed. After my daughter goes to bed, I'll often have a beer and play some mindless video game. Date nights and visits from friends are now as central to my life as snotty noses and homeschool worksheets.
The funny thing is that I feel little remorse about my death as Supermom and my rebirth as Everymom. When I look at my evolution over the last couple of years, I see a pattern not of failure, but of empowerment and relief. The most satisfying moment of my life as a mother came when my three-year-old daughter-- after a long an exhausting day-- went to bed without a bedtime story for the first time in her life. I calculated that she'd had a bedtime story for 1,241 days of her life. That meant 1,241 days of "perfect" motherhood. By punctuating those 1,241 days with a day of imperfection, I allowed myself a blissful moment of relief. It's like I could hear my mommy-conscience patting me on the back and saying, "That'll do." The next day, I went so far as to let my daughter eat a handful of M&Ms-- and I didn't feel guilty about it.
Perhaps predictably, my daughter has been happier and healthier than ever since I relieved myself of my position as Supermom. Since I began accepting my own imperfections, I've been much happier and much more ready to conquer the task of full-time motherhood without resentment or anxiety. I'm a better mom because I know I'm not a perfect mom, and the feelings of relief and acceptance are contagious. My daughter was perhaps even more relieved than me by the idea that it's okay to skip a bedtime story, and that ice cream for dinner-- every once in a while-- might not be such a bad thing.
Today, Supermom is a memory to me, not a lifestyle. I feel satisfaction and joy in knowing that the best mom I can possibly be while still giving myself the attention and relief I deserve. While I'll never dismiss myself as being "good enough" at motherhood, I've learned to accept that the best I can be is the best I can be-- and that my daughter doesn't want or need anything more.
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