Gemma Hartley

When my son was a baby, I used my husband as a second set of hands. He was my co-parent, the other caretaker... I was no longer viewing him as my partner, but rather as an aide to attaining the next level of mothering. Even though my husband never called me out on my behavior, I slowly but surely hung up my need for perfection. Because if being a great mother means being a crappy wife, I don't want any part of it.

Despite endless exhortations to "enjoy every second," the reality of three toddlers is not always a Disney postcard. And it's okay for some moms to admit that they look forward to having a little less mess, a little more serenity.

Fortunately, when I look back at my childhood, it was mostly happy. I had parents who loved me. I had plenty of friends. I had access to food and shelter and education and more. Yet even with all my privilege, I don't want my daughter to have the same adolescence as me.

Mom friends were the ones to whom you were supposed to spill all those dark parenting thoughts. I wanted that mom-magic. I knew it was out there somewhere.

It wasn’t the name I would have picked — not originally, at least — but as days turned into weeks, it grew on me.

To be honest, it’s exhausting, and I am ready to shed this pesky baby weight once and for all. I mean that literally.

Again and again I refuse to prioritize, refuse to let anything slide, at the expense of my physical and mental health.

There is a time to be prudent and fair to “many sides” of an issue, but dealing with Nazis is not that time.

Becoming an adult didn’t magically open me up to their world and their psyche as I thought it would. Even having children of my own did little to unravel the mystery of my parents, because I wasn’t really interested in exploring honestly. I have always been concerned with who my parents were in relation to me, not who they were on their own.

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