Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • When people ask me about the most joyful moment in my life, I have to think really hard.

    Inevitably, they will ask, "But what about the birth of your children?"

    Did I love them? Yes.
    Did I immediately have a sense of overwhelming terror? Hell. Yes.
    Joy? Not so much.

    I was happy the labor was over. I was exhausted. I was petrified. I went from knowing where my child was at all times, knowing they were well fed and cared for, to motherhood. I was going to have to remember to feed them, and in the womb they were remarkably quiet. Now... I was pretty sure dogs were barking two streets over from the decibel range. Shortly after my second child I became an only parent, which just ratcheted the anxiety up that much higher. There was no one else to blame but me. I was solely responsible for the care, feeding, and nurturing of another set of human beings. I barely remembered to eat regular meals myself, how in the hell was I going to manage to not only nourish but encourage something else? Why did I think this was a good idea?

    what. the. fuck.

    Joyful? Not a chance in hell.

    Today, I'm that mom. The quirky mom who has no clue what they are are doing but manages to make it work anyway. I think parenting books are a complete waste of time, so I spend my nurturing career doing what I've done all along--fake it. When all else fails, I hug them and tell them I love them. When they pick out their clothes and nothing matches, at least they know I love them, mismatched and all. I'm pretty sure things out of a can are bad and out of the garden is good. I don't watch t.v., so why bother having one? We are working it out, and there's still no one to blame but me.

    No one else gets the credit but me, either. These little humans are freaking amazing.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.