If life had a syllabus, motherhood would be the longest, most confusing class with no office hours and a professor who just shrugs and says, “You’ll figure it out.” And yet, here we are, showing up every single day, bleary-eyed, fueled by caffeine and vibes, and hoping the homework doesn’t eat us alive.
Some mornings I wake up thinking I’ve got this nailed. Lunches packed, laundry at least sort of folded, kids halfway dressed before 8 a.m. I walk around the house like I deserve a medal. Then Nico loses one shoe (just one, how??) and Anthony starts crying because his brother looked at him wrong, and suddenly the whole operation falls apart like a Jenga tower stacked by toddlers. Which, coincidentally, is exactly how my house looks 90% of the time.
Motherhood has a thesis, I think. It’s about holding all the contradictions in both hands. You’re exhausted but you laugh until you snort. You’re frustrated but then you get a sticky little hug and your heart melts into a puddle on the floor. You want space so badly you’d trade it for diamonds, then the second the house is quiet, you’re scrolling through old pictures of the kids like a lovesick teenager. It’s all of it, smashed together in one messy, glorious package.
The other day, I was trying to read an article (yes, something grown-up for once, not about Minecraft hacks or Paw Patrol conspiracy theories) and I got through maybe three sentences before someone shouted “Moooooommm, I need help!” By the time I got back, the coffee was cold, and my brain was too. This is it. This is the thesis. We start a million things, and half of them stay unfinished, but the important stuff—bandaging scraped knees, doling out snacks, answering big kid questions about how airplanes fly—those we finish. And sometimes we actually get them right.
Of course, motherhood isn’t all noble sacrifice and soft-focus commercials. It’s sticky floors and tiny Legos hidden like booby traps. It’s Rex asking me where the ketchup is when it’s literally right in front of his face. It’s saying “please eat your broccoli” so many times that I start questioning whether broccoli even exists anymore or if it’s just a government myth.
But here’s the secret I keep circling back to (and don’t tell me it’s not true, I’m clinging to this like a pool noodle): the thesis of motherhood isn’t about perfection. It’s not about spotless kitchens or kids who say “thank you” without being prompted. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up over and over, even when your eyeliner smudges and your patience wears thin and you swear you just washed that shirt yesterday.
And honestly? It’s about laughter. The kind that bubbles up when Anthony puts underwear on his head and declares himself “Captain Underpants the Second.” Or when Nico tries to use “sus” in a sentence like he’s the coolest kid alive, and I can’t stop grinning at his serious little face. It’s about finding the comedy in the chaos, because if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry, and laughing makes better Instagram captions anyway.
So yeah, if I had to sum it up, the thesis of motherhood is this: it’s hard and it’s wonderful, it’s messy and it’s magic, it’s chaos and it’s love so big it makes you forget about the sand in the car seats and the laundry mountain taking over your bedroom. And maybe, just maybe, it’s less about acing the class and more about showing up, turning in your half-finished assignments, and realizing the professor doesn’t actually care. You pass just for being there.
And on the days where the thesis feels too heavy, I remind myself—I can always edit. Tomorrow’s draft might look different. But it’s still mine. And honestly? That’s enough.