To All the Young Moms Whom the Internet Has Failed

It starts so innocently.

What begins as a single search for a specific purpose – a recipe using overripe bananas, a solution for toy organization, a printable for fall decor – ends in a 3 hour internet binge. Instead of a recipe, solution, or printable, I find myself with 14 new home improvement projects, 3 new at-home workouts, and 12 easy steps to raising genius children overnight.

It’s a hard thing, navigating life in the digital age. It’s not just hard for teenagers, it’s hard for women and men and moms and teachers and spouses and humans.

All the expectations. All the opinions, all the comparison, all the “could be”s and “should be”s and “why aren’t you”s that make it from the loop of our newsfeed to the loop in our minds.

• • •

As a stay at home parent, I fight the need to justify the time I spend with my kids. It’s natural, the desire to feel productive. The desire to account for time and energy; the desire to calculate that efficiency in tangible measurements.

The problem is, my time is not always quantifiable. I can’t check it off a neat little list.

I could clean the house from top to bottom all day only to have it destroyed in the 2 minutes I peed alone before my husband walked in the door from work.

And it’s not that I haven’t done the laundry yet, I haven’t done it again. (There’s a difference.)

The justification tension is real.

18 months ago, I was particularly self-conscious about how the boys and I were spending our time.

What are we even doing with our lives? Shouldn’t my toddler be able to count to 10 in English AND German? Shouldn’t my 3 year old be reading? SHOULDN’T THEY KNOW ABOUT PHOTOSYNTHESIS BY NOW?!

It was during this mental spiral I embarked on one of my internet binges.

I came across a blog post for this DIY sensory bin, guaranteed to “promote practical life skills and healthy emotional development”.

Yes! That’s what we’ve been missing! SOLD. (Mastery of skills preferable before 6pm so my husband will be duly impressed.)

I went to Costco that afternoon, bought a 20lb bag of pinto beans (sensory development!!!), poured them into an old Christmas decor storage container (recycling awareness!!!!), threw in some tractors and cars (realistic play!!!!), and – voila! – a sensory bin.

I felt mom-tastic.

…………….

It lasted less than 24 hours.

I sincerely wish I had a “before” picture, but I don’t.

The only picture I have is the sensory bin aftermath, taken during a play date with friends.

Suffice it to say, not only were my children not suddenly emotionally well-adjusted, the only practical life skill they acquired was learning how the @#&$ to get 19,474 pinto beans off the floor of our home.

This was 18 months ago. Cursing was involved.

Without exception, every single month for the past 18 months, I find more pinto beans.

In my shoe, in the washing machine, in the freezer, in Daniel Tiger’s trolly, in the backyard, in the couch, in the pantry.

Beans, in every. place. imaginable.

Endless beans, to current day.

Two weeks ago my boys were playing with their LEGOs. One brother came up and handed me what can only be described as a Pile of Earthy Substance.

“What is this??” I asked.

“No idea.” he shrugged. “Just found it in our LEGOs and thought it was weird.”

A few minutes later, the other brother brought me another bit of ecosystem as he casually remarked, “The LEGOs smell super bad, by the way.”

WHAT.

I walked over to the box and began sifting through the pieces. I began uncovering earthy bit after earthy bit.

“What in the actual world is happening right n—” I began as it dawned on me exactly what was happening:

Somehow the LEGO box had gotten wet and

several

rogue

pinto

beans

had

sprouted.

S P R O U T E D.

SPROUTED!

Sprouted (!) into bean sprouts. (Like the kind they put on top of your pad thai.)

If for no other reason, THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T INTERNET BINGE WHILE YOU ARE FEELING VULNERABLE.

It can lead to years of unwanted legume growth.

• • •

But really.

This happens all. the. time.

The internet can be such an emotional bully. And I don’t just mean actual cyberbully trolls, I mean a bully of expectations: what you should be doing as a parent, how you should be doing it, when you should be doing it, how you can measure what you’re doing.

Last year I sent my oldest off to school. I was nervous as all get out. Did I prepare him enough? Does he have enough knowledge? Does he have a good foundation?

Do you know what I quickly realized? He is a standout kid.

Not because we did STEM puzzles every morning. Not because we practiced the alphabet every afternoon. Not because he walked at 8 months. Not because he was potty trained by 2.

None of those things are true for us, and it wouldn’t matter if they were.

He’s a standout kid because he is kind. Because he is loved. Because he is supported.

All the rest is periphery.

It’s hard parenting in the digital age, man. There is way too much information.

It’s easy to get lost in the race of it all, but after things like the stupid Beantastrophe of 2017-2018, I want out. And you should, too.

• • •

To the mom whose kid is still in diapers while all his friends are in underwear…

To the mom whose daughter doesn’t know the alphabet while her friends are writing their names…

To the mom whose baby isn’t crawling while the other babies are running…

To the mom who is googling “educational activities for 2 month old” because you don’t want to miss a single opportunity…

To the mom whose baby was born a trilingual brain surgeon…

it’s just going to be okay.

It will all even out.

And to every mom who feels like she isn’t doing enough: you are, because you’re you. And you is really all your kid needs.

Be intentional, absolutely, but don’t be intimidated.

The time we spend loving our child is immeasurable. It will never fit on a checklist, nor was it meant to.

What a gift, to raise the exact right kid in the exact unique way that God exactly equips each of us to do. His goodness is on display in every single child.

We’ve got to put down the internet, take a breath, and be.

You do you, I’ll do me, and we’ll all agree to not do pinto beans.