Geez, if I'm admitting that, I may as well admit the whole truth.
Eight. Eight (cringe) hours of iPad time.
I have been struggling with this technologic increase as the early sunny momentum of park stops, board games, and picture books slowed to a mere crawl of daily summer survival.
I see their little jaws slack, eyes glaze, and backs hunch as they Minecraft and Blues Clues their way through one warm morning that bleeds into another melting Texas afternoon.
I see my newsfeed littered with other moms creating sensory projects, museum trips, and magical pillow forts while they all happily munch kale and sip organic pear nectar hand wrung by rainforest fairies and bottled by baby unicorns.
And I've felt like total garbage. A waste of motherhood. Too exhausted and spent to be able to muster up anything more than crippling guilt and a popsicle.
A wave of that hit this morning as I was chipping my way out of the cake-baking aftermath. Andy was watching Chuggington, index finger knuckle deep in a nostril. Jake was feverishly running from Creepers swinging a diamond axe in survival mode. Cody was gnawing on an old piece of toast he found at the bottom of his high chair.
I panicked for a second.
They're brains are turning to mush before my eyes. They'll forget all their letters and manners and resort to a vocabulary of grunts and a diet of boogers. And OMG…the baby is chewing on white bread.
But then I mentally smacked myself as my friend Heather's words came back to me in that moment:
"We aren't parenting in the days of our moms. Our kids are ALWAYS WITH US. We hopped on bikes, rode around all day, played with friends, came home for meals. Our moms had lots of time without us. We don't live in that parenting anymore. No wonder we feel so suffocated."
It's true.
In this age of instant awareness of the world's ills and evils, pressures and Pinterest we've turned our cul du sacs into bunkers. We've locked up the bikes, quit gluten, and interact only in vetted, plastic play dates; smiling brightly, playing sweetly, dying to truly connect or leave. Our kids have ceased to be members of the family and have instead mutated into entitled little epicenters of our lives and worth.
Our calling cards.
Our measures of success.
Our miniature reflections.
No wonder we're cracking under the pressure. We're putting all our eggs in a basket held by the grubby, sticky fingers of adorable little a-holes and expecting them not to toss them at the first car or kitty they see.
So, let's stop putting that pressure on both them and us.
Let's try and incorporate self-care along with kid-care.
Let's force them outside to figure out how to play on their own while we read a non-picture book.
And when an eight hour iPad day creeps in, let's refuse to wallow in guilt and failure and belief that "the other moms are nailing it." Because no one can really harness rainforest fairies or baby unicorns. They're beautiful, mythical creatures never found in nature. Just like the "perfect mom."
Take a breath.
Take a break.
Toss them a popsicle.
Hand them a screen.
You're a fantastic mom and all the red dye #40 and Thomas the Train doesn't change that.
