What 30-Something Moms Know About the Parenting Struggle

My life as a mother has barely begun. I’m only two years into this adventure, but I’m already mid-way through my 30s.

By the time my mother was my age, she had a pre-teen and a teen. Yikes.

I can’t imagine teenagers. That’s an adventure that’s yet to come (or a problem for another day, depending on how you look at it).

I’ve had a lot of women say they can’t imagine having a kid in their 30s or 40s because of how much energy babies take. (And toddlers, and teenagers, and...)

Being energetic is a parenting virtue highly sought after, second-only to patience—and no parent will ever say they’ve had enough patience. Never. Ever.

For me, the hardest thing has been the total and utter lack of control.

Control of my world in general, but more specifically of my time.

More often than not, there are dried Cheerios stuck somewhere on my floor. Fingerprints: everywhere. Tantrums appear sometimes out of thin air, making our once-peaceful open-concept home an amphitheater to dramatic, ear-piercing soliloquies.

But the lack of control over my time has been the most persistent challenge for me.

In my 20s I was busy catering to the demands of university and being new to my profession. I didn’t have much control over my time. If I’d had kids then, it might have felt like more of the same, a continuation of frenzy.

By the time I was in my 30s, I was more situated socially, professionally, and personally. I’d slowed down, started to enjoy the fruits of my labour.

I existed on whatever routine I’d chosen. Outside of a few exceptions, like tax season, and the hours of my favourite Indian restaurant, I was the master of my own domain.

I could pick up a book whenever I wanted. Read all night long and sleep in. Netflix marathons were plausible. I could work out when and where ever my motivation hit.

Grocery shopping was done largely when I felt in the mood to shop. Feeling too lazy to cook just meant ordering in, or eating chips and dip for supper, or skipping a meal.

Perhaps we should pause here so I can say that I’m not entirely hedonistic. I enjoy order! (Most of the time.) I (sometimes) thrive on routine. I’m driven to be productive (outside of Netflix binges).

But I loved choosing those things, at the times I wanted.

I’d gotten used to being reactive only to my own motivations or goals.

Then this beautiful, marvelous, mysterious, completely non-nonsensical being came into my life. And he threw me for a loop.

I think a lot of people interpret their reaction to this loss of control as selfishness. It’s not. But having a kid in your 30s or beyond often means having had years—in some cases entire decades—to focus on knowing your needs and achieving personal growth. Parenting was the start of a constant sense of immediacy. And it never stops.

It’s learning what your baby needs and flipping your world inside out to give it to them. Learning how and when they want to feed and sleep. How they like to be held. If they like to travel. Temperature control. Songs. White noise, or no white noise.

There’s no putting off meal time because you’re exhausted or aren’t in the mood. God forbid you’re sick, PMSing, have to work. And there’s no point in even talking about sleep.

When you run out of baby food, you have to start blending up sweet potato. Cause these little guys don’t like being hungry. If he likes the blue cup more than the purple cup, I hope you have a backup, because when he leaves it in the park you’ll be out there at 9 pm using your cellphone as a flashlight trying to find it.

Our little one loves to be outside and the demands start even when he still has breakfast on his plate. My time for coffee and watching the news and feeling informed and engaged in my world is gone, because I have to be the sidekick in his. I have to pull the wagon. If he feels like the bike, I pedal. If he feels like the stroller, I push.

Soggy diapers don’t wait, and laundry needs to be done. Dishes have to be washed and sippy cups sanitized. Workouts rushed during nap time in the basement are often interrupted.

There’s no pause button on motherhood, no choice. Every single day is a long list of tasks that are mostly necessary to their basic survival and developmental success. The other ones are necessary to our survival. (Just stop making the funny car sound and see what happens.)

I don’t think you’re selfish if you sometimes struggle with being a once-independent individual who is now the loving but exhausted servant to a (or several!) little dictator(s).

There’s no training for this and no slow integration. There’s no earned-time-off for extra hours worked when you’ve been up all day and all night trying to solve the riddle of colic and ear infection or fever.

If you had gotten used to a comfortable independence, it can be really hard. Remember going to the bathroom alone? Me either.

I get a lot of cuddles. I know he wants me all the time because he feels loved and safe, and for that, I’ll give up all the books, naps, and showers.

But I also look forward to the years when he’s eager to play on his own, explore his world in different ways, and can communicate better. I imagine sleeping well again, having time to read a book. I even fantasize about being able to put off groceries and laundry every now and then.

I think experienced moms know that that day will never really come, because there are always lists of tasks, and new reasons for urgency. I suppose I already know that, too.

But if nothing else, if you ever cringe at the sound of tiny excited footsteps racing toward the door, ready for your third trip to the park that day, or feel exhausted by the thought of reading Brown Bear Brown Bear What Do You See? for the 17th time in a row, know that you are not alone. I am somewhere out there, lacing up my shoes, or turning the page of a book right along with you.