Dear young mama,
I feel you. The baby is fussy and needs another bottle, burping, diaper, or snuggle. You don’t know which, though, until you try all the things. While you’re figuring that out, the toddler is running amok—wild and free without a care in the world, most likely destroying things as he does. I can feel the stress and the tension building in your body because I’ve been there. It feels like everyone is watching. All eyes are on you and the circus you brought.
But I see you. You’re trying to get out of the house, hoping the toddler gets some energy out, and maybe you run into an adult and can have a random conversation that makes you remember you’re more than just a blur of the fulfillment of other people’s needs. I can see the exhaustion and the feeling of isolation building in your mind because I’ve been there. It seems like this will never end; you’ll never know quiet, rest, or autonomy again.
And I hear you. It sounds like the constant overstimulating noises of chaos. Every sound from the baby and/or the toddler is perceived as disruptive and annoying to everyone nearby. You feel terrible taking them anywhere because no one else should be subjected to the nonstop, high-decibel environment you are used to.
But it will change, I promise. I can’t say it gets easier because as they get older, the problems become less about them needing you all the time and more about not having the power to provide the outcomes you so desperately hope for them.
You might look at me and think I have it all together. I promise you, I do not. I just have more time for myself now that my children are old enough to start making their own way, apart from me, in this world.
So when I offer to help you, please know it’s not from a place of judgment. I don’t mean to say that I don’t think you can do it, or that you are doing it wrong. I genuinely want to help you, to take even the smallest thing off your incredibly full plate because I haven’t forgotten what it is like to be you.
Once I finally leaned into the idea that “it takes a village,” I found the strength to keep going. Slowly but surely, I discovered the hope that things would be a little less chaotic one day. And I was finally able to have a little enjoyment with the stage I was in.
If I am being honest, I don’t want to go back to the days when my kids were your kids’ ages. Because it is hard, and it is relentless. But I do wish I could get a hug from those little arms or a whiff of my freshly bathed baby or hear the delirious belly laughs after some incoherent babble.
So, when I offer to hold your baby while you load the toddler into his car seat or chase the toddler around in circles while you feed the baby, or rock the baby while telling the toddler silly stories so you can decompress for even one minute, please let me. Not because you can’t do it all, but because I can’t do any of it anymore. We both get a little something we need.
To do more than just survive, it does take a village. But, you have to be willing to let me be part of it by saying yes to my offers of help from time to time. And I promise another saying is also true: “The days are long, but the years are short.” Soon enough, you will be more than happy to pay it forward.
Sincerely,
An older mama
by Heather McGuire 
by Winnie Munroe 
by Charissa Bates 
