The Motherhood Test

This morning, by 8 A.M. I made approximately 108 baby meatballs, and 296 sweet potato bites all for my  precious  almost 9 month old. I didn’t necessarily do this for fun, but more so for the fact that I cannot for the life of me get him to eat his “finger food”.  He will however rub his food on the dog’s nose, throw his food on the floor, smash his food into a zillion pieces and pretend he’s dying when food gets stuck to his hand.  I’ve been somewhat patiently putting up with it, settling on puffs and pureed food, and slowly trying new foods.  By slowly I mean every single day, or in other words cooking for the dogs.

Well it’s now November.  Which means I have the dreaded motherhood test coming up and I HAVE TO make sure Finn is eating properly.

Let me explain, from my past experience, a rough outline of how this motherhood test has gone precisely 4 times now, and how I foresee my upcoming test.

In a nutshell, I will drag my precious bundle of joy to the doctor, where she will ask me lots of questions, and tell me lots of answers.  Next a nurse will come in and stick needles in my babe’s leg rolls.  That’s it, nothing to it.  It’s great.

But wait, In addition to witnessing the abuse of my dearly beloved child I, as the mom, must pass an assessment.  It’s kind of like a pass/fail of my motherhood skills based on just a few open-ended questions. It’s really not a big deal.

My pediatrician, whom I love and trust, will very sweetly ask me questions like “how much does he eat?” and “is he sleeping through the night?”

She will ask so nicely that I’m tricked into telling her every bit of the truth. I’ll ramble on and on and still will not manage to come up with the perfect answer. I’m sure there are millions, maybe even trillions of amazing moms out there who have never come remotely close to failing a motherhood test, because they are organized, and their baby breathes and eats and sleeps and poops at all the correct times. But I haven’t necessarily followed all the rules in regards to schedules and such, and I really don’t regret it at all.  That is, until  it’s time for another motherhood test and I’m desperately Googling and Pinteresting schedules and food and things that good moms do.

Anyways, the doctor will ask a few more questions; I’ll again ramble and again be gently corrected. Then we will smile and tell each other to have a great day, and she’ll say I’m doing SO good, because she’s SO sweet like that.  But I know deep down she’s going to mail me a parenting book for Christmas.  Then the nurse will come in to do the whole jabbing needles thing.  I’ll re-dress my screaming baby with his cute little batman band-aids and walk out the door.  Again, nothing to it.

Last but not least,  I’ll replay the conversation with my doctor over and over and the rest of my day will go a little something like this: I’ll call mom to ask her if she thinks I’m a bad mom.  I’ll get the obvious answer, because moms love their kids.  Then I’ll decide to be supermom, so I’ll sit down with my planner, for the sake of feeling organized, and I’ll plan some new meal ideas, tweak Finn’s schedule, and write a reminder to stay on schedule.  Then I’ll call mom again for some more reassurance. Then I’ll call dad, you know, for more reassurance.

–  The end –

So this morning as I’m envisioning this upcoming event, scrambling to make food my babe will possibly eat, thanking God I can finally tell the pediatrician he sleeps through the night, and Googling the exact schedule he should be on at 9 months, I realize I’m a total lunatic.  I’m consuming myself with the 9.6 million articles that explain in great detail everything my babe should be doing perfectly, that I’m not even enjoying this moment with him.  This moment with him is so tiny, but so sweet.   I’m putting so much focus on the pressure to get everything “right” that  I’m somehow convincing myself that having a well-fed and nurtured and loved baby isn’t enough.  And that’s just dumb.

So if, in a few days, I feel like I didn’t have all the perfect answers, and I haven’t followed all 87,000 rules, I’m not going to question my whole existence as a mom.  My babe is loved so insanely much and peas are overrated anyways.


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