When I first became a mom I thought I was prepared. I read the baby books, attended all the classes my hospital offered, researched every topic, and took copious notes from veteran moms giving me pointers about baby gear and sleep training.

And then my son arrived.

I had the book smarts but definitely not the street smarts to be walking the streets of motherhood. This was one hood that I didn’t feel like I belonged in.

I found that I had no clue what I was doing. The baby sleep schedules and breastfeeding techniques that I thought would come so naturally to me, all ended up making me feel like a failure. I can’t even begin to describe what six months of potty training did to my mommy self-esteem.

But I’ve been give second chances along the way and the peace of mind that each mistake was just a stepping stone on my journey through motherhood.

After my first failed attempt at motherhood, I became a mom again with the birth of two more children. I was relieved to have a fresh start and a chance to redo things. Knowing this, I relaxed a bit. I let my baby sleep on my chest with less guilt that I might be creating a terrible sleeper. I felt more accepting of the fact that the formula I gave all three of my boys was not interfering with my ability to bond with them, and I felt more comfortable turning on the TV so I could get a break, knowing that I wasn’t actually rotting my kid’s brain.

And potty training again?… Well, round two went much smoother. I tossed the books out the window and silenced the voices in my head telling me that each accident was my fault. I realized that I had put so much pressure on myself to have my first son potty trained at 21-months not because it felt right for us, but because a book and witnessing other moms made me feel like that was what I had to do. So, when it was time for my second son to start the dreaded potty training phase, I waited. I waited until my son was ready, but I also waited until I was ready.

***

Learning and growing from our mistakes is what makes us moms. Just as our children are learning to crawl, walk and run, we are learning how to be moms through baby steps as well.

Give yourself grace. You aren’t doing anything wrong. Your mistakes are just chances to do things differently the next time.

Each mistake is a stepping stone on your journey through motherhood.

The post Raising Kids One Mistake at a Time appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

 But what happens when my pictures are hiding a thousand words? 

As I scrolled through my Instagram pictures, I realized that I am only showing about half of what my life actually is. 

My perfectly cropped picture is hiding my messy house. The beautifully toned filter is covering up the lack of sleep I got from having young children. After 20 tries and a few death stares, we manage to get one family picture where we are all somewhat looking at the camera.

Why do I do this? Why do I try so hard to hide the reality of my life from others? 

As a mother, I so badly want to be perfect or at least I try to give the appearance of it. I see other moms and their kids and think that they are the standard I need to strive to achieve. 

Why can’t I create my own standards? My kids are going to be happy, not because I created the most memorable, Pinterest-worthy birthday party or because we took them on an expensive and elaborate adventure but simply because we found the simple joys that exist in life. 

A few pictures popped out to me as I scrolled through my Instagram. They brought back so many emotions. Emotions that are not visible on the surface to the naked eye. 

I want to strip away the filters on some of my pictures and let you know the real story. Because, well, this blog is my social media platform that I created and control and I am posting my reality.

So here it is, the truth behind some of my pictures.

This beautiful picture was taken on April 25, 2014 when my first son was born. The day I became a mother. 

I had my personalized gown that I purchased from Etsy just for the hospital and my hair was freshly washed and blow dried. As my husband and I gazed adoringly at our new baby you can’t help but think, “Wow, isn’t new life perfect?”

Reality…my hair was done because this was a scheduled c-section and I had time to shower and get picture-ready before arriving for my “appointment.” I was devastated by the idea of not delivering my baby naturally, but he was breech, and there was almost no other option but surgery. 

The look of admiration and love in our eyes was pure terror and perhaps all the drugs I had been given. My husband and I had no clue what we were doing with this child. The nurse instructed him to lean in and look at the baby and yes, it turned out like perfection. But to be honest, I barely remember this moment and the following 24 hours for that matter. The medication I was given was so strong, I vaguely recall my parents visiting the hospital that day. My blood pressure was being monitored closely and I dreaded trying to get out of bed because the pain was so unbearable. 

But, time has eroded some of these memories and worn them down so they don’t seem quite as bad. Heck, we went on to have two more children despite this delivery. But I do get a very uncomfortable, blurred feeling each time I see that picture.

I look back at this pregnancy picture with mixed feelings as well. I was a few weeks away from delivering my last son. I had done my hair and make-up for once, put on the shirt and jeans that had become my uniform since nothing else fit, and made my husband take no less than 30 pictures at varying angles until I got the perfect shot that didn’t make me look like I had gained 50 lbs (yes 50!). 

When I look back at the picture I think I actually looked pretty good but it is the ONLY picture I have of myself pregnant with this baby. I refused to get in front of the camera.  I never even posted this picture on Instagram.

At this point in pregnancy I felt miserable.  My feet (well whole body) were swelling more than my other two pregnancies, I was exhausted and sore all the time and because of the baby’s position, I could hardly walk the block without feeling pain. 

Guess it shows that the pregnancy glow is only in the eye of the beholder.

This next picture was taken one month into the Covid-19 Pandemic. At the time we were still calling it the Corona Virus. It was new and uncertain. 

We had locked ourselves in our home, fearing the unknown of the outside world. 

It was scary and strange. 

I was isolated and alone in a house of 5 people. 

My best friend, someone I was used to seeing several times a week, walked her kids over to our house and we spoke in-person for the first time in a month, divided by a fence, separated by fear.  She took this picture of us. 

We look happy but inside I was desperate to run out and give her a hug. I wanted to see our kids play together and be free again.

I wanted to tear down this fence. The fence that separated us for the world and created uncertainty and separation in our lives.

I see the smiles on our faces and hope that my kids remember the joy of being together not the fear and confusion that still hits me when I look at it.

The caption I put on this picture when I posted it on Instagram was, “I love this little guy!” 

Yes, I did and still do love this not-so-little-anymore guy, but I also know the state I was in at the time I posted it. 

Ronin was 3 months old. I lived 1.5 hours from my family and best friend. I was lost in motherhood and just 3 weeks before, I got the call that my dad had passed away. It was sudden and life shattering. 

We were in the midst of planning a funeral and making some sense as to what had happened. 

I see my mom’s shadow in this picture and it pains me to know what she was going through.

Yes, I loved that little guy. I kissed him on the cheek and held him up high, giving the impression of sheer adoration, all while I was crumbling inside.  But in the end, we learned that he was the glue that was holding us together when all we felt like doing was fall apart. And for that memory alone, I cherish this photo more than anything.

So the truth comes out. I am a fraud. I am a liar. I have been deceiving the world and myself for most of my motherhood career because I needed the social world to think that I had it all together. Well, I didn’t, and still probably don’t, but for me, that realization can only be described now as “picture perfect.”

The post Being an Imperfect Mom in an Insta-Perfect World appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.

This phrase has become my badge of honor. I wear it with pride knowing I have failed many times in motherhood to have earned it. 

There have been great days where my mothering game was on point. And I have had failures that are still cringe worthy. Either way, I am learning to just keep flipping. 

Looking back I can recall ways that I have burnt my first pancake. Well, who am I kidding, each of my 3 boys have been a bit singed by me. 

1. I tried potty training my strong-willed son at the early age of 21 months. I find this laughable now but it was a long and messy road. 
   
2. I thought I could get my 3 week old baby on a sleep schedule.  (yep, three weeks, not three months).
   
3. Multiple times on the playground I had to answer the dreaded question, “Is this your son?” Then proceed to guide my child through a genuine sounding apology before strapping him into his car seat and screeching out of the parking lot out of sheer embarrassment. 
   
4. I probably spent $1,000 at a chiropractor trying to get my breech baby to flip so I could have my dream delivery experience instead of a scheduled C-section. And this was after my doctor, who had delivered hundreds of babies before mine, advised me that 85% of babies breech at 34 weeks never flip. 
   
5. I let my 9 month old scream bloody murder in our tent, at a campground, at 1:00 a.m. because I read that he needed to, “Learn to sleep in his pack n play.”
   
6. When I found out that my 7 month old had dropped to the 1st percentile in weight, clearly because I just couldn’t produce enough breast milk, I made my husband go to the store to buy formula because I couldn’t deal with the guilt of not being able to nourish my own child. 
   
7. I practiced baby-led weaning hoping that my son would grow up to be a healthy and adventurous eater. Well, at age 7 his go-to foods are Goldfish crackers, Dinonuggets and frozen pizza.
   
8. I thought he was ready for sports at age 2. We put him in a parent-and-me class and proceeded to witness an endless flow of tears and him running everywhere but where the class was being held. I learned that age 2 is way too young for organized sports

Well, there you have it. I have scorched, singed and charred my first born son but the good news is, he is alive, healthy and happy despite everything I have done to him. 

As a mom, when you feel like you are doing everything wrong, and your child will never recover from the trauma you are inflicting on him/her, remember that Everyone Burns Their First Pancake, so just keep flipping!

The post Everyone Burns Their First Pancake appeared first on Burnt Pancakes.