On a particularly dreary March afternoon at home with my three little girls, I found myself asking yet again, why I was failing as a mom that day. I’m sure the weather played a factor in my mood, but man, I just kept getting it wrong. Why you ask?
Well, I had just read that a recent study confirmed the dire importance of reading consistently to young children to ensure proper brain development, and I denied yet another book reading request because I had to prep the baby’s liver-pate, lest she become iron deficient because another study suggests that organ meats are essential in ensuring adequate intake of iron, zinc and protein for six-month-olds.
“What is wrong with me today?” I thought. Why can’t I get it all done? Auto-piloting back, I picked up my most recent read to search for the pâté recipe, and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
MAMA, PUT THE BOOKS AWAY.
What do you mean? I need help. I’m going to help myself. I’m a mom=doing the best for my children=books with all the answers on how to do so. 
But in that moment I had to ask the question: Are the self-help books on motherhood no longer helping me? Are the books actually GIVING me things to have anxiety about?
For instance, if I didn’t know that mothers in France often start baking lessons with their three-year-olds, would I be worried that my preschooler was still only working to master PB&J spreading?
Modern Mom Must Reads. The Top 10 Books that ALL Moms Should Read. 20 Powerful Books about Motherhood.
My library request queue is filled with books from lists like these. There’s one on how to talk to your kids, how to help with sibling rivalry, another five on what they should eat and when and how and how tiny you should cut the pieces or not cut them at all, and more on how parents in other countries parent, yet another on teaching independent play skills, and another, and another and another.
I had found, learned, and internalized so much good information from books such as these.
But too much of a good thing in my case was becoming a very, very not good thing.
And on that dreary February day, I had to get real with myself.
I am one human, taking care of three tiny humans who rely on me for the entirety of their basic human function and I’m worried about their prekindergarten book tallies and iron intake?
There is only so much that one human can take in and internalize and apply, let alone a mom of 3 children under 5.
All of these things are great, and beautiful, and important and beneficial to the humans that I want to one day send out into society. Researching an alternative formula recipe for my baby suffering from allergies was a life-saver. Reading that it’s okay to watch my toddler struggle a little bit without intervening has built such resilience in her from a very young age. Learning to empathize feelings while setting clear boundaries has saved my relationship with my iron-willed firstborn.
But there is a line. And sometimes I cross it.
Being more informed but unable to complete these unrealistic tasks I created for myself was not giving me a better quality of life. I was literally giving myself things to fail at.
And the biggest cost was the effect it had on my relationship with my girls. It was taking me out of every moment.
It was causing me to not enjoy them by then looking at all the things they weren’t doing or weren’t “good” at, as opposed to what they do really well and how awesome of little people they were becoming.
No, the baby isn’t playing independently in her gated space, but she prefers broccoli to bananas.
No, my two-year-old isn’t improving her fine motor skills with a love and fascination for cup stacking but is she strong and responsible when she willingly requests to help carry the grocery bags in.
No, my four-year-old isn’t seamless in her ability to navigate social norms, but boy is she witty, competent, and downright brilliant.
For today, I’m closing the books. I’m going to enjoy the beauty and wonder and sheer adventure of raising three tiny humans and let the books decorate the shelf for a little while.
I’ll be spending April and May afternoons extending myself a boatload of grace, because I am the only human on this planet choosing to worry about their every impulse, whim, and brain connection.
And maybe–just maybe–they will look back and remember mom was happy and playful and listened when they hurt and sat when they needed a friend and chased them when they felt playful and they won’t really care or know that some nights their mac ‘n cheese wasn’t organic, sometimes the TV was on a little longer than the suggested 1 hour or less a day, and sometimes mom just did what her intuition told her, whether the book confirmed it or not.
