#WorstNightEver

(Essay delivered April 29, 2014 at the Northern Utah Listen To Your Mother Show at the University of Utah Union Building.)

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I’ve decided that the internet is bad for my self-esteem.

Because on those days when my unshowered self sits there in mom jeans staring at the perfect Pinterest parties and amazing Facebook vacation pictures, I can’t help but feel “awesome” and wonder if anyone else’s version of motherhood is as messy and imperfect as mine. I wonder if other moms wonder what kind of legacy they’re leaving for their children and grandchildren and if our best efforts will ever measure up. Those doubts hit me the hardest when I try to do something amazing for my kids and it still ends up being a total disaster.

We had the chance to ice skating a few weeks back for my husband’s work and I was so excited not just to be doing something besides our boring, stay-at-home family night, but that I would be able to share pictures online of us doing other than our boring, stay-at-home family night, and maybe, just maybe look something like those cool moms do.

Except my “cool mom” family night went sideways as soon as we left the house.

My 12 yr. old had been skating before and helpfully told everyone that it was freezing cold …  and they’d fall like a million times … and probably crack their heads open and die. Well that took the 9 yr. old and 7 yr. olds from giddy to freaking out and wondering why we’d do such a crazy thing. The 5 yr. old was happy to ignore the older three, figuring that anything with ice had to be as cool as the movie FROZEN and wouldn’t stop singing “Let it Go!” which irritated everyone, especially the 11 yr. old who was already mad that I’d made him wear jeans instead of shorts because he’d just watched the Olympics and “nobody … I mean nobody, Mom, wore jeans on the ice.” And my poor 8 yr. old middle child sat literally in the middle, trying to decide if he should be excited to try skating or bracing for doom.

Then our car broke down a mere mile from the ice skating rink. And as the steam and smoke poured from under the hood, the 12 yr. old muttered. “See? I told you ice skating sucks. Even the car doesn’t want to go.”

The 11 yr. old begged to walk the rest of the way since we were so close to the rink and he’d already been forced into wearing jeans, to which I explained in excruciating detail mom-lecture style was absolutely crazy because there was no way on earth we’d ditch their dad on the side of the road and do something as dangerous as walk in the dark ….

All right, guys, grab your coats. We’re ditching dad and walking in the dark.

Turns out my husband’s co-workers who could help fix were already up at the rink and not answering their phones.  So while my husband and the moody 12 yr. old stayed behind, I marched five kids down the street Von Trapp style, trying to “un-scare” them about all the terrible things I sworn would happen by walking in the dark, along busy roads and through heavily wooded parking lots with no street lights.’'

When we got to the rink, five little bodies shot out like buckshot across the ice as I did my best to be in five places at once.

· Like with the 11 yr. old took off like a champ and managed—even in jeans—to skate just as cool as “those Olympic guys.”

· Or the 5 yr. old who couldn’t skate to save her life and hung from my neck like a goiter until I grabbed her one of those sporty red skating walker and sent her off taking out the knees of everyone around her.

· Or the 9 yr. old and 7 yrs. old who did well at first, but eventually went back to worrying about the cold-and falling-and head cracking thing and wound up pouting and crying in the penalty box.

· Or the 8 yr. old who ricocheted from one side of the rink to the other in an awkward half skate-half trip, yelling “still alive!” each time he’d crash into the wall.

All the while I was just praying I didn’t fall down so that no one would have to scrape Plus Size Barbie Mom off the ice.

At the end of the session, I exhaustedly tried to corral five grouchy kids off the ice—some mad to leave, some mad that we were there at all—when the event photographer skated up to us and asked if he could take our picture for the company newsletter.

Are you kidding me?

So in desperation, I told them all to smile, dang it! for their dad who was still stuck on the side of the road. Four out of five pulled it together with their best fake smiles, while the  9 yr. old refused—crying harder and louder, slumping down on the floor of the penalty box behind us, shaking her hands to the heavens and shouting WORST NIGHT EVER!! as the photographer said, “smile!” and clicked away.

The next day I laughed and cried as I looked at the picture the photographer had taken, I wanted to badly to share what a great night we’d had. I mean come on … here was this picture of everyone smiling at this seemingly amazing family ice skating night--no need to mention the car blowing up, the missing husband, the kid having a melt down on the floor behind me, or the eight year old who still isn’t convinced that with time and therapy, his ice skating blisters will heal and he’ll walk again. If I wanted to, I could post away and fake my way to Supermom status as the Facebook “likes” and comments about me being such a ‘cool, fun mom’ rolled in:

#FHEfun #blessed #bestnightever

Except that no amount of online spin could change that night from being what it was. And what it was, was motherhood: the days when our plans go amazing and the days when we’re shooting from the hip; the days that go well and the days when everything falls apart; the amalgam of the beautiful and wonderful and messy and frustrating moments that make of our ordinary lives a grand legacy.

The more I looked at that picture, the more I’m worried that we’re losing it—losing the legacy of motherhood that is ours to tell when we don’t tell the whole story. And in that moment, I realized how dangerously close I had become to deleting this memory and loosing mine. When we heavily edit (or delete parts entirely), our moments in motherhood can end up as a hollow status updates that teach ourselves and our children nothing. And I worry about the day when my own daughters will sit at their computers in mom jeans and have their own doubts.

What am I doing to help them – and me --see the big picture?

I think of the mothers that I look up to when I have those bad days— women like the pioneer mothers who settled this valley. I admire them not just because they did this great thing and pulled handcarts across a continent, but because I know that they were poorly clothed and buried children along the way and still had the courage to keep going. And it’s not just that they thrived in the desert, but that they did it in the face of famine and crickets and heavy winter snows. I know this about them because their gift to us—their legacy—was to record it all: the parts they loved and the parts that broke their hearts; the moments of triumph and joy and moments of bitter failure. And what we’re doing in our homes and with our families is just as great and powerful, and will mean as much to our daughters and granddaughters who come after us … but only if we’re brave enough to tell them.

It’s time for us get out a notebook, write on a blog or even record our voices on our phones as we drive back and forth from soccer practice and start telling our stories – the whole story -- behind those hashtagged photos with the cute Instagram filter. Each picture, each post, each time we share our lives, we have a choice to make. Will we delete every less than internet perfect moment, or be brave enough leave a legacy?

Mothers, it’s time to be brave.

#keepingitreal