In which I join the Society of That Mom

With Archer approaching two in high style and the days of little bald babies in the rearview mirror, my patience is being tested and I’m stretching in alllllll new ways.  In other words, I’m joining the Society of That Mom.


Look, internet, motherhood is no laughing matter. You will be humbled in a thousand ways before your baby ever turns 1. And then just when you think you’ve got that little bouncing bundle all figured out, they become a toddler and they formulate another thousand ways to mortify you.

You know who That Mom is: the one whose son is either dressed way too babyish, or has way too long hair, or maybe she lets him paint his toenails. Or maybe he wears clothing that’s just a litttttle too girly or is still drinking out of a bottle? Or maybe she’s ripping open food in the grocery store before she’s paid for it to appease the crazy toddler? THAT mom. The one that the old ladies at church murmur about or family members make comments regarding? Uh huh. That one.

(Side tangent: can we talk about the fact that it’s always the mother being judged in this scenario? Why is it never That Dad? End tangent.)

Anyway. Yes. I am becoming That Mom and I imagine that my official card is already in the mail on its way to me so that I can flash it at any moment. My Baby  is no longer technically a baby, and I am hanging on to his innocence and infancy as long as humanly possible. After all, he is my last baby, and I’m milking it for all it’s worth.  He will wear those one piece romper things until he totally outgrows them. He is still wearing soft-soled moccasins.  And the clincher?  I realized I have officially joined the Society of That Mom as a card-carrying member of the Chapter of Boys Whose Moms Should Get them A Haircut Already.

But! How could I cut all those glorious baby curls? NO! They are so silky and sweet and I KNOW that if I cut them, it’ll be over. Nope. They’re gonna stay. No scissors shall touch or come near the baby’s head. He’s like a baby Harry Styles! YASSSS. Or Samson! Or … Baby Yanni!


You can see the resemblance, can you not? Luscious little baby curls. NEVER SHALL THE SCISSORS TOUCH THINE LOCKS OR YOUR POWER WILL BE GONE.


Ahem. Pardon this one where he is studiously inspecting the contents of his diaper. ?inspecting-the-diaper

Then earlier this week, I realized that I can also be a part of the Chapter of Moms Who Can’t Make it Through the Grocery Store Without Feeding Their Child From the Shelves.  Which, incidentally, my mother is also a member of (so sorry I judged you, mom).  I swore up and down I would never ever do that, and here we are. Munching and shopping to my eternal chagrin.


So all that to say, God bless all mothers out there. We’re all doing the best we can, are we not? And it’s complete and utter survival to get through the day in one piece, with everyone’s arms, legs, and eyeballs. Hang in there, Fellow That Mom. And high five to YOU, sister.

Side note since I can’t seem to pull together an updated 18-20 month old post on Archer:

Words he says: No, ball, hot!, car, dog, cat, dada, wa-wa, shoe, ba-ba (bottle/sippy), truck

Things he loves: Daddy, brother, basketball, Nickels, Cars, taking showers, dumping everything on the floor, and screaming

Things he hates: carpool ?, his carseat, morning naptime (see ya), being told no



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