Disclaimer: I actually do love being a stay-at-home mom.
I remember the day my toddler graduated from sippy cups to regular cups like it was yesterday—mostly because it was yesterday, which is nice because pregnancy brain has erased all memories more than two weeks old.
I had dropped his sippy cup on the floor, and it was the last clean one until I could bring myself to tackle the dishes. The fall covered the lid with the dog hair I had been meaning to sweep up, so I decided to live on the edge and throw the cup away.
But first, let me back up. When my son turned 18 months old, I pored over online developmental checklists and felt a deep disturbance: He can’t use a spoon! He can’t draw circles! He can’t say ‘Hello, how are you?’ in Spanish OR English!
At his two-year appointment, my pediatrician asked if he could kick a soccer ball and jump. I gave a faint smile and said, “Sometimes,” as my heart raced and the next 16 years flashed before my eyes. My son can’t jump. He will never amount to anything.
So yesterday I watched in wide-eyed fascination as my son’s chubby little hands cradled the cup and slowly tipped it back. He set it down on the table with a massive grin, and I almost burst into tears.
Something in me switched. I’m much less concerned with keeping up with the Joneses and their athletic, bilingual children. I hold out hope that my son will be just fine if he doesn’t memorize the ABCs before he reaches 2-and-a-half.
As I look toward the next developmental milestone in need of tackling—potty training—I am drowning out the fear of everlasting bedwetting with the assurance that he won’t be an 18-year-old college freshman in diapers. Hopefully.
Carrie Taylor is a native Texan and mother of one.