Parenthood has a funny way of turning you into both a giver and a taker, sometimes in the same breath. I give the last bite of my dessert to Nico even though he already had two. I take a few deep breaths in the pantry when Anthony is on his third meltdown before 9 a.m. I give my patience, my snacks, my favorite hoodie, and I take… maybe five minutes of silence on a good day.
Some days, I swear motherhood feels like one long exercise in giving—time, energy, snacks, sanity. You wake up already spent, hand over everything you’ve got, and somehow still get asked for more. “Mom, can I?” “Mom, where’s my?” “Mom, he touched me!” It’s like my name doubles as a customer service line.
But lately, I’ve been thinking about the taking part too—the things we take back for ourselves, or maybe need to. I used to think self-care meant bubble baths and pedicures, but now it’s more like getting the grocery pickup order right on the first try or drinking my coffee before it gets cold. Sometimes it’s just saying no to one more commitment, even if the guilt creeps in a little.
Rex and I have this ongoing thing where he’ll say, “You give too much,” and I’ll roll my eyes, because doesn’t every mom? But then I watch him with the boys, letting them “help” wash the car (aka spray him directly in the face), and I realize he’s right. I pour from a cup that’s been empty since 2018. And yet, I keep going. Because the giving is what makes this all work.
Still, there’s a quiet kind of balance hidden in all of it. I take tiny things back—five minutes on the patio at night, the sound of the ocean from a few blocks away, the first sip of coffee when the house is still quiet. Miami mornings have this humid stillness before the city wakes up, and sometimes that’s all it takes to reset. Just me, the birds, and the faint buzz of traffic starting up in the distance.
Giving isn’t always big and noble; it’s ordinary and messy. It’s making dinosaur-shaped sandwiches even though you swore you’d never become that mom. It’s letting Nico “help” cook dinner, which doubles the mess but triples the smiles. It’s sharing your favorite pillow with a kid who had a bad dream. And the taking part—it’s remembering you’re still allowed to have things that are yours. Your thoughts. Your quiet moments. Your favorite playlist that doesn’t include cartoon theme songs.
I think motherhood teaches you this constant rhythm—give, take, give, take. It’s like breathing. Some days I give more, some days I take more, and that’s okay. I used to feel guilty when I took too much time for myself, like I was stealing from my family. But it’s not stealing. It’s refueling. It’s what lets me show up again the next day with something to give.
There’s a sweetness in that cycle, even when it’s exhausting. Like last weekend, Nico offered me half his popsicle—sticky, melting, barely holding together—and it felt like this little cosmic wink. He’s learning too. He’s learning that love isn’t one-sided. It’s give and take, messy and honest.
So maybe that’s the trick. It’s not about balance like a perfect scale—it’s about movement, back and forth, like the tide. Giving, taking, resting, trying again. Sometimes you’re the ocean, sometimes you’re the sand. Either way, it all comes back around.
And somewhere in that swirl of snack crumbs, bedtime stories, and carpool chaos, you realize the giving and the taking are the same thing—they’re both love, just in different directions.