When I resigned from my full-time teaching position last May, I had many fears. One of my biggest fears was that I would be bored staying at home. I was worried I wouldn’t be busy and would loaf around the house in my PJs all day, appearing lost, lonely, and worthless. Strong words, I know, but honest feelings. Being a stay at home mom, homemaker, domestic goddess, whatever fancy term you like to use, was a very foreign concept to me as my mom has worked as a teacher my entire life.

“What the heck will I do all day?” I wondered many times.

You know where this is headed.

I was wrong. Very wrong.

My biggest surprise? Just how busy I have been.

Shamefully busy.

I say “shamefully” because I feel it has been the wrong kind of busy.

My fear of the b-word (boredom) pushed me into planning over-drive. From day one, I made sure I had something on my calendar everyday. A play date. An errand. An appointment. An entertainment of some sort. A responsibility. A duty. (29 years old and I still giggle at that word)

I wanted people to see me and say, “Look at Ashley! She stays at home with her girls, but she is always out and about and still active and getting things done. She’s so cool. And beautiful.” (Ok…reeling it back in…)

Before long, my monthly calendars were looking like some crazy, confusing maze…time consuming and really leading nowhere.

Of course, as adults (not just stay at home moms), we have lots of things to do in order to keep our lives up and running. We have places we have to go, people we have to see, and things we have to do.

However, I had to have a reality check with myself because didn’t I quit my job so that I could be more available to my girls? 

So that I could do puzzles with her at the table instead of merely supervising from my post at the kitchen sink?

So that I could build block towers with her on the floor instead of simply hearing them tumble from my office while I edit photos?

So that I could enjoy slower mornings with sleepy-eyed, fuzzy-headed girls instead of pushing them to get out the door on time for fillintheblank appointment/errand/obligation?

I have declined invitations to color with her so that I could return an email.

I have passed on opportunities to teach her something new so that I could plan preschool lessons for my class.

I have denied them the simple joy of lounging in PJs for half the day because we had someplace important we had to be.

Even though my 3 year old enjoys a good trip to the store, I’d have to think that she’d rather build an obstacle course with pillows (with me) or read one of her zillion books (with me) or play with her Barbies (with me) than ride in the shopping cart while I tell her “no, you can’t have that,” or “no, we don’t need that today,” or “no, you can’t get out of the cart” over and over and over again.

So today, I’m committing to under-committing. We may not make it to every play date, lunch date, function, or meeting. We may have a week where we don’t leave the house except for emergencies (Starbucks counts, right?). It may take us a little longer to get out of the house in the mornings. We may be late. I may actually let them nap in their beds and not in their car seats. Emails, texts, and Facebook messages might get returned the next day. The house might will be a disaster. (OK…not much of a change there)

Because my girls are going to grow…they are going to learn…they are going to play. They are going to experience life. They are going to giggle, and they are going to cry. They are going to learn to walk and learn to read and learn to ride a bike without training wheels. They are going to outgrow diapers and outgrow toddler clothes and outgrow beloved blankie and Baby Bella.

All of that will happen…ready or not.

Busy or not.

It doesn’t happen a lot, but it happens enough for it to bother me.

I’ll be at a store or at a school or just somewhere (because rarely am I ever home), and I will get stopped by someone I know…typically an acquaintance whom I don’t see very often, but know just well enough to exit my tunnel vision for a second and make small-talk.

I’ll have the girls with me, and the conversation will shift over to them. Typically, the first thing someone will say is, “Wow, look at their hair!”

Then, every so often, I will get a “How old is she?” in reference to my three year old.

And then something like this happens.

“Oh, she’s a big girl!”

“She’s so much bigger than my girls!”

“She’s gonna be big!”

Just like that, my funny, clever, happy, intelligent, special little girl who has never been “off the growth charts” is reduced to a size.

A comparison.

A superlative.

And it’s like nails to a chalkboard every time.

I find myself quickly trying to shift the conversation, or sometimes I will say, “Well, she’s 3 and a half…” but usually I will say nothing at all.

I have struggled with my weight all of my life. When I was in elementary and middle school, I was chubby. I have always had a round face. I am short, so five pounds on me can look like fifteen on someone else.

I “thinned out” a little in high school, put on the obligatory college pounds thanks to 3 a.m. pizza and $1.25 drink specials (damn you, Dill Street), lost weight for my wedding, gained the newlywed happy weight, lost weight before babies, gained weight during pregnancies, and now carry about thirty extra pounds that I would rather see gone.

But my point is that I knew I was chubby in elementary school. And being a 4th grade teacher for six years, those girls knew when they were chubby, too.

My girls will learn soon enough how they “measure up” against their peers. Maybe they will be bigger, maybe they will be smaller, maybe they will be taller, maybe they will be shorter. Maybe their hair will be curlier. Maybe they will have more freckles. Maybe they will have straighter teeth or maybe the opposite.

Soon enough, they will be worrying about being “thin enough,” “pretty enough,” “popular enough.”

It happens very early…the comparing. They catch on quickly.

In fact, after preschool one day, Noelle came to me and cried because a little boy said she looked like Princess Sofia.

“What was wrong with that?” I asked her.

“Princess Sofia is not a beautiful princess like Rapunzel,” she cried.

My three year old was already wishing she looked like someone else.

And it broke my heart because I have been there.

I still go there.

But I try my hardest not to “go there” in front of my girls. Each morning, they see me stand in front of the mirror and pick out clothes for the day. And as much as I would love to throw my clothes in a pile and say, “None of these fit because mommy is too fat right now,” I don’t. I hold back. I censor myself. I do not want my children, my girls, to see what poor body image looks like. I don’t want them to hear me insult myself. I’m very protective of that.

Noelle watches me apply make-up, too, and when she asks why I am doing it, I try to say something like, “Girls don’t have to put on make-up, but sometimes it is fun to play dress up.” She doesn’t need to know that if I don’t put on my mascara, blush, and lip gloss, I may be confused for a naked mole rat and/or a walking corpse.

So let’s go back to the unintentionally offensive comments at the beginning. I say unintentionally because I do feel they are not trying to hurt my feelings or my daughter’s feelings.

But can we work on how to “comment” on children*?

Like, can we “comment” less on children and speak more to children?

*By children, I don’t mean babies. With babies, really the only acceptable response upon first gaze is “Awwww isn’t she just the cuuuuutest wittle thing in the whooooole wide world?!”

How about this. You’re at the store and you run into someone you went to high school with who has a small child. A girl. She looks about 3 years old. After you greet your long lost friend, how about instead of making a comment about the child’s appearance, especially the child’s size, you bend down, speak to the child, ask her her name, ask her how old she is, ask her about her favorite color, TV show, animal, song, food, anything.

Could we try more of that? Because even if you just say a little girl is beautiful, which is a lovely compliment to give, there are so many others we could say. Girls are more than beautiful…at least mine are. Of course I believe my daughters are the most beautiful humans on the planet, and they should be reminded of that–definitely, but their beauty goes far deeper than the surface.

Girls are smart. They are inventive. They are creative. Girls are funny and clever. Girls are curious, happy, and free-spirited. Girls are delicate. Girls are strong. Girls are sweet. They are sassy. They are giving. Girls are kind. They are colorful. They are imaginative. Girls are charismatic.

Girls are important.

They are more than a size, than a weight, than a face.

Any of those things…you could say…instead of

“She’s a big girl!” and looking at her like she’s the biggest sasquatch of a three year old you have ever seen.

Because next time I get a comment like that, I’m going to know what to say, and it might not be very nice.

About a month ago, when I started asking Noelle what she wanted to be for Halloween, she insisted she wanted to be Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I immediately took to Pinterest, searching for the cutest, handmade Ariel costume ideas. I was determined to have Noelle & Charlotte in coordinating costumes (I like a good theme). Last year, they were a butterfly and a caterpillar. This year, they would be Ariel and Ursula (sorry, Char). My mind was spinning with cute family photo ideas and fun ways to show them off.

Three trips to Hobby Lobby, an hour of work, and one very cheap and ugly red “Ariel” wig later, the mermaid costume was complete. I made Noelle a tulle “mermaid tail,” which was basically a glorified long tutu that was gathered at the knee to give the “fishtail” appearance. I thought it was really pretty!

I asked Noelle to try it on, and before she even tried to walk three steps in it, she burst into tears and insisted that she didn’t want to be Ariel anymore.

As you might imagine, I was pretty disappointed. After two bribes and three threats didn’t work, I decided to pick my battles. The mermaid tail and hideous wig are now resting peacefully in my craft closet, and I’m now the proud mama of Izzy, the girl pirate from Jake & The Neverland Pirates.

Now that I think about it, a pink-clad pirate seems to fit Noelle’s personality a little better than a half-naked sea creature (no offense if you’re the mother of an Ariel this Halloween. Email me and I’ll mail you the skirt…).

You see, there are a whole host of things that a mermaid can’t do but a butt-kicking pirate can.

A mermaid can’t set sail aboard the S.S. Noelle

or spot new land up ahead.

A mermaid can’t find buried treasure

or raise a flag to signal that the she has arrived.

A mermaid needs a prince, but a pirate just needs a sister sidekick.

Maybe she’s phasing out of the “princess” stage.

Or maybe she’s just telling us what she wants.

Or maybe we’re just listening.

I’ll let her trade a sea shell bra for a bandana and pigtails any day of the week.

I asked for this.

I wanted this.

I prayed for this.

I can do this.

I have been repeating these four phrases over and over for the past hour.

I have a difficult toddler today.

She is exercising every last freedom of speech that she has by telling me I’m “too warm,” don’t smell good, and am fat. I’m also a mean mom who never lets her do anything. She never gets to have fun, and she never gets to watch any of her TV shows.

She’s only 3 1/2. I thought for sure she’d be at least 11 years old before the never talk began.

And it’s only 1 p.m.

I have a difficult toddler today.

It’s an uncomfortable thing to admit when your child is acting horribly because you feel as if your child is a direct reflection of you as a parent. Surely, she learned how to call someone fat from me. Surely, she learned how to act in defiance from me. Surely, she learned how to hurt someone’s feelings from me.

In my heart, I know that is not true. I know she has never heard me even call myself fat because I am very careful not to use that word around her. I know that the TV she does watch is limited to PBS and Disney Junior, and I’m always right there watching it with her. I know that we do not tolerate insulting others or yelling to get her way.

But why, despite my best efforts to parent, model, and discipline, does she act this way?

I have a difficult toddler today.

I can see it now. The teachers meeting behind closed doors at her elementary school, talking about her behavior, and then switching the conversation to us as her parents.

“They must let her get away with everything at home.”

“What kind of language do they use with each other if that is what she repeats here?”

“Do they even try to discipline her?”

I’ve been there, as the teacher, passing judgment on my students’ parents. But now, as a parent of a difficult toddler (today), I feel their pain. Not every child who displays inappropriate behavior or acts out in anger or yells unkind words is the offspring of Go-Go Juice-chugging, beer can head-smashing, inattentive parents who leave it to The Simpsons to teach their kids what they need to know about life.

Not that there’s anything (too) wrong with that.

Sometimes, the time out doesn’t work. Sometimes, the privileges lost don’t matter. Sometimes, the tiny human has to feel big and powerful, and sometimes, screaming that I’m a fat, mean, smelly mommy is her way of doing that.

Am I happy about that? Am I proud of that? Do I condone that?

No.

But I have a difficult toddler today.

She’s difficult on other days, too. Like when we go to a friend’s house for a play date and she’s bossy or selfish or antisocial. Or when we go to the store and that $15 piece of pink plastic has to be hers or else.

I see the looks. I feel the stares. My neck gets hot with anxiety.

And it hurts. Because I think I’m a good mom.

But just as she is learning more and more each day about boundaries, social norms, and what will and will not be tolerated, I’m learning, too.

And right now, I’m learning that my difficult toddler needs her fat, smelly, mean mama now more than ever.

My baby is one year old. I’m still trying to come to terms with that.

She decided to take 6 consecutive steps on her first birthday. So basically she was trying to kill me.

With turning one comes lots of changes. Walking. Talking. Full-on table food meals and no more bottles. No more formula.

Yes, you heard that right. Formula. Poison Powder. Devil’s Food. Everyday, 4-5 times per day, I scooped chemicals from a can and mixed them with water to make a meal for my child.

I know. I rock.

Now, do I really think formula is Poison Powder? Devil’s Food? Chemicals from a can? No. I don’t. My sarcasm comes from a place of self-defense. That whole make fun of yourself before someone else can tactic. Because the truth is, I used to have a ton of guilt about formula feeding my girls, and I’m here to help other mothers with the same guilt not feel, well, so guilty.

There seems to be  a lot of support for breastfeeding moms. There are Facebook pages, support groups, and even demonstrations where groups of breastfeeding moms will  get together at a public park and feed their babies uncovered to “show what real women look like.”

Look around. Are there any support groups for the women who chose, for whatever reason, to formula feed their babies? Have you ever seen a large gathering of women at a park, circling up to shake their formula-filled bottles and feed their babies together as a unit? Do formula moms proudly proclaim that they don’t breastfeed?

No. I was doing the exact opposite. I was embarrassed to scoop formula into the bottle in front of other moms and shake it vigorously, which surely was going to give my child the most painful gas bubbles ever. I used the Medela and Tommy Tippee bottles to make it appear that there was breast milk in there. I felt annoyed when I had to make room in my travel bag for the giant Big Gulp can of formula, rather than fill that space with a cute pair of shoes. I was only hoping the TSA agent at the airpot would think the “suspicious white powder” in my carry-on was Anthrax, rather than formula, the worst thing a mother could give her child!

The truth is, I would rather have breastfed my girls until they turned a year old. I am married to a freaking doctor…so I know that breast milk is truly amazing. I know that on the Island of Rainbows and Unicorns, it rains breast milk. And I know that when those breast milk rain droplets hit the ground, they turn into nuggets of gold. I just know it.

But I also know that my breastfeeding failure story is not unlike a lot of other moms’ out there. I started out a nursing queen. Exclusively breastfeeding and loving life. Giving formula cans the stink eye when I passed them in the grocery store. Not for me, Formula! Nope!

And then this slice of Heaven called maternity leave ended, and I had to go back to work. Day in and day out, I lugged my pump to school along with a mini cooler and an ass-load of other accessories. I had tubes and bottles and ice packs and wipes and power cords galore. Each day, on my 40 minute prep time, I would lock my classroom door, sit under my desk, and pump all while trying to grade papers, respond to emails, and plan lessons for the week.

I would pump for about 25 minutes and get about .00008 ounces (due to stress? low production? lack of stimulation? Jesus hates me?), and then it would be time to clean up and go pick up my students.

My only other time to pump during school was during lunch. After eating my Lean Cuisine over the sound of the milking machine for about a week, I began to think the pump was talking to me. If you have ever used a breast pump, you know what I mean. The thing starts to sound like words after a while. I decided that I needed to get back to the lounge with my friends for lunch. I needed to vent, laugh, talk, share ideas, and get away from my classroom for a while.

Only pumping once per day ultimately lead to the depletion of my milk supply and the end of my breastfeeding experiences. I was able to feed Charlotte in the middle of the night until she was about 6 months old, but her frustration with a low milk supply caused her to bite me once…and, well, no.

Did I give up? Yes. Could I have made more sacrifices? Absolutely. Am I a bad mom because of it? I like to think that I’m not. I mean…wouldn’t a bad mom be one who doesn’t feed her kids at all?

I enjoyed breastfeeding…when I was physically able to do just that. Breastfeed. I loved holding my girls, knowing that they were relying on me for all of their nutritional needs. I loved the bonding time, the extra cuddles, and I grew to love those dead-of-night smiles that only a breastfeeding mama would be awake to see.

I didn’t, however, enjoy being a slave to a pump, only to get what felt like 2 drops of “liquid gold” to ooze out of me. I didn’t enjoy locking myself away in a room at family gatherings, cowering under my desk at school, or hunching over the pump while sitting on the floor so I could still somewhat interact with my children.

And so began my relationship with formula and placing endless amounts of guilt on myself and making me believe that if I was a dedicated, loving, worthy mother, I would have stuck with breastfeeding. Now my kids are going to be obese, unhealthy, and will probably end up on the streets. 

See how twisted all of this becomes? Even though I was still feeding my baby, holding her at all hours of the day and night, loving her, talking to her, making sacrifices for her…I still felt like less of a mother because I wasn’t breastfeeding.

But you know what?

Enough.

My girls are and have always been healthy. In fact, Noelle has never really even had a sick doctor visit (with the exception of a couple mystery rashes), and she’s nearly 4 years old. Charlotte has had a run of RSV and an ear infection, but other than that, she’s happy and healthy. My girls are developmentally on point. I’m actually afraid of how brilliant Noelle would have been if I would have breastfed her for a  whole year (if it’s true that breastfed kids are smarter than formula-fed ones).

They aren’t obese, but they have some darn cute leg rolls!

And they love me. They know I’m their mama, and I don’t think they love me any less for feeding them formula.

You never know a woman’s reason for not breastfeeding her child. It could be due to medication. It could be due to an anatomical abnormality on either mama or baby. It could be due to an allergy or sensitivity for baby. It could be due to a low milk supply. It could be due to a crazy work schedule. It could be simply due to the fact that she doesn’t want pancake boobs.

Whatever it is…let’s not make a formula mama feel like any less of a woman…any less of a mother…than a breastfeeding one. Remember, let’s stop the mompetition once and for all. Let’s be supportive of each other, because this world is scary-crazy-isolating-competitive enough as it is.

Fellow formula mamas– raise your bottles in the air, and shake ’em around like you just don’t care. I am one of you.