Cheers to the Diaper Years (eBook)

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What Somebody Should Actually Tell Us When We Are Expecting

Now that we have established that we are chosen for this awesome role of Mommy, I want to make a confession. When I took my precious firstborn home from the hospital on a chilly fall day back in 2012, I had not one clue what to do with that sweet (and boisterous) bundle of joy. I felt like they probably shouldn’t have let me leave the premises. Looking back, I’m not exactly sure what caused Brookwood Hospital’s staff to make the decision to send us home. (I’m guessing my incessant requests for lime-margarita-flavored popsicles every fifteen minutes might have had something to do with it, but the jury is still out on all that.)

Once we arrived home and took all the mandatory “we’re home!” memory-making scrapbook pictures, I began my nesting drills (only six-ish months late to that party). I dug my hand down into a bag the hospital ever-so-generously gifted me with at our departure ceremony, hunting for the instruction manual to guide me in nurturing my newest prized possession. And would you believe, they left mine out? They let me leave that hospital with not a single guide explaining what to do with my brand-new baby! So it made me very reflective on this scary notion of babies leaving hospitals with well-meaning yet woefully unprepared parental units.

When you show up to a car dealership and buy a car, it comes with a manual. Cookbooks come with long, drawn-out recipes that include intense instructions. Doctor appointments do not commence until you’ve read an encyclopedia full of disclaimers, the love story surrounding the origination of HIPAA, and the latest educational/athletic achievements of the doctor’s kids. Heck, even purchasing a cell phone requires reviewing a seventy-five-page document these days.

So why in the world do babies not come with instruction manuals tied ever-so-neatly to their tiny ankles?

It seems like the most important responsibility in the world should come with a little more prep. Just sayin’. Do you hear me, God? It’s Erin …

Instead of flipping through a handy-dandy CliffsNotes version of motherhood, I read all the books about what to do, what not to do, how to do it, and how not to do it. My head is still spinning from all that research, actually. And while reading that What to Expect When You’re Expecting book is great and all, I wish somebody had taken a few moments for some #RealTalk with your girl and shared the following things.

God (and our babies) will still love us, even when we burn dinner

I gotta tell you, the pressure to be “enough” has never been greater in our world. And sometimes (read: all the time), I just wanna let my crazy hang out, and I’d be willing to bet you do too. If we set this unrealistic standard for ourselves, especially when it comes to mommyhood, what does that say to our kids? That they have to live up to those standards too?! Whoa now. I’m scared just thinking about that. It’s a simple statistical fact of life that we’re gonna burn dinner, and we’re gonna lose our kid in Target at least once, maybe twice. (If more than twice, maybe consider seeing somebody about that. But no judgment, promise.)

Thank goodness that our God is not in the business of a second chance. He is in the business of another chance. And we get another chance every single day. Wouldn’t life be super boring if the washing machine spilling soap suds all over the kitchen floor wasn’t the opening line at every Christmas dinner? It will not be funny in the moment, but the moments that our society has oh-so-lovingly dubbed “epic fails” actually become the spice of life, the watercooler stand-up-comic moments, and the memory-book fillers.

So you do you, Momma. Let it all hang out. Some days you might be worthy of the cover story in Good Housekeeping. Others you won’t. But don’t forget to celebrate both. Strive to be your best, but always land in your truth. Because God is there. And that’s where you need to be too.

Motherhood is the greatest joy and toughest challenge of your life

If someone had told me that within an hour of my first child’s birth, I would have to decide to change pediatricians, figure out whether or not to put her on the BiliBed, agonize over breastfeeding, and shoo away unwelcomed commentary from the peanut gallery, I might have prepared myself a whole lot better for the journey.

We don’t really get a heads up that motherhood is actually not so much about planning all the playdates, but rather about piling on heaps of God’s grace. It’s about owning the fact that we don’t know everything, and running into the arms of the One who does. It’s about recognizing the moments we need help, asking for it, and extending it to others when they need it too.

Which leads me to …

No mother knows more about your kids than you do

As it turns out, every person in the world has an opinion about every other person in the world. Some of these “opinions” are good and some are bad. Some are legit. Some are malicious. Some are just concocted bull … Well, you know what I mean. And, unfortunately, these opinions do not always remain confidential. Especially when it comes to motherhood, for some reason.

Mommy shaming is alive and well, friends. And if you think you’re exempt from its unassuming death grip of terribleness, think again. It may present itself in the form of a well-meaning “suggestion” from a friend or, even worse, from an in-law (dun, dun, dun …). Or it may come in the form of a tacky comment on social media that hits you like a snake bite in the wilderness of Mommy Mayhem. But, however it manifests, I’ve got good news. Unless the arbiter of this ill-advised commentary either assisted in the procreation of your offspring or is God Himself, tell that hater to take several seats.

In the past, I have been guilty of succumbing to upset feelings when someone spewed her venom my way. But then I realized that God had not selected that individual to parent my child. He had not chosen her to nurture, guide, and love my little ones. So what did her opinion matter when it came to my child or my parenting? Spoiler Alert: It doesn’t matter one bit. The old saying goes there can be “too many cooks in the kitchen.” Well, there can be too many mommas in the nursery as well, folks.

So, here’s a heads up: Don’t allow anyone to steal your joy. Seek God’s confidence and rest in His grace. You are never going to be perfect, but with His direction, you will be the best momma to your child. Just as He designed it in the first place.

Pinterest is straight from satan

Can someone show me the Scripture that says I must send personalized invitations printed on heavy-duty card stock for my child’s first birthday party? Like, where did Jesus frown upon Evite? Or Paperless Post? Or heck, even a group text? (Maybe it’s in the footnotes?) Mom Confession: I have a love/hate (despise) relationship with Pinterest, because who realistically has time to raise children, keep house, potentially work, actively participate in a marriage, and make butterfly-shaped tofu-kale burgers with spinach and avocado tater tots?!

Really though. I’m being serious. Present yourself. We need to have a long chat, because this is about to be the momma movie version of [S]he’s Just Not That Into You. I’m the Bradley Cooper character over here looking for the “fun” ones, and Pinterest-Perfect Girl ain’t making that cut. #GoAndTellThat. While you are donning your no-doubt freshly ironed, monogrammed apron, whipping up homemade non-GMO treats, and creating Pulitzer-Prize-worthy handmade baby books, I am struggling to find the missing sippy cup that has two-week-old milk still in it.

And guess what? I am now totally okay with that, because one day I really am going to spend hours crafting and wearing my “DIY Diva” label with pride. I mean, who doesn’t want those gorgeous white marble countertops with pristine mason jars spilling over with home-grown succulents. But for now, I will leave the Pinterest Perfection game to others, and you’ll find me over here with my kiddos making memories while rolling around in piles of laundry that we aren’t even completely sure are clean or dirty at the moment.

Mamaste, friends. Mamaste.

Never say never

I’ll never forget sitting in a restaurant at the age of eighteen, glaring at a mother feverishly attempting to maintain three little ones. I was so ticked off that these tiny rugrats were ruining my night out on the town.

Cut to twelve years later when I swallowed an entire humble pie as my three-year-old threw herself onto the floor of that same restaurant, kicking and screaming while about thirty patrons stared at me with a “Get the heck outta here!” look of derision. God sure does have a sense of humor. And I honestly think that when we make little comments like “I would never...