Social media is wonderful. Instagram is my jam. I follow fashion influencers, women with mermaid-like tresses, lifestyle bloggers (helloooo chunky knit throws and exposed brick accent walls), musicians, makeup artists (Seriously, show me again how to apply that highlighter so I glisten a just little and not look like I’ve just run 4 miles in a full sweatsuit) and, of course, motivational mamas with all the advice and hacks and kid-friendly activities.
Most days, I use it for inspiration for my home or my outfits or for parenting tips and advice. I have my favorite Instagram “celebrities”. They usually lift me up; as a general rule, I follow funny, bubbly people. But sometimes, when my daughter is screaming and will only eat strawberries and won’t keep her pants on and the dishes are piled and one of the dogs pooped in the basement AGAIN and my favorite jeans won’t button without me reeeeally sucking it in, I see these women who appear to have it all together, and it stabs me, right in little piece of my heart that hasn’t already been crushed by the dog poop and tight jeans and real-food boycotting baby.
My self-worth and self-confidence plummet.
Well, readers, hear me out – we only show our best versions of ourselves. Duh. I’m going to say it again, for the beaten-down moms in the back…
We only show the best versions of ourselves.
No one posts about the embarrassing or humiliating moments. Of course not. It goes against our human nature.
Recently, I was out with my husband and daughter, and I saw one of those mamas I follow on Instagram. A local celebrity, if you will. I see her posts and always think, “Man, what a good mom.” Her kids are always laughing. She’s taking them to storytimes, zoos, clubs, scouts and, well, basically everywhere. I follow along, an unknown audience member, on their daily kid-friendly activities. I like her because she keeps it real. Her kids not always perfectly groomed, but they are always smiling. Full of joy. Being real kids. She’s attentive and involved. It’s enough for some days to let that little gremlin I usually keep suffocated in the corner of my working-mom’s mind to creep around the corner and snarkily whisper, “That’s a real mom. Look at all the places she takes her kids. See how involved she is?”
Anyway, I saw her. With her three kids in tow. At this local kids event, I was at with my daughter. I had come straight from work, still in my scrubs, frazzled by traffic, with my daughter who I wanted so desperately to share this moment with, but who was tired and cranky and off her schedule.
Enter Insta-mom.
And one of her kids having a huge meltdown, like real kids tend to do. And insta-mom wasn’t handling it well. She was undoubtedly worn out and tired, but she was dragging him around the corner by his arm to give him a lecture. She was disheveled. He was crying. She had no patience for him or his tantrum. She lost her cool. She started yelling at him, in public. (Gasp!) He threw himself on the sidewalk and starting wailing and flailing.
And in that moment, she became a real mom in my eyes. For so long, she had been this ethereal, perfect mom. I mean, sure, I probably somewhat knew she was a real mom with all the struggles and trials that come with it, but I didn’t really know it.
I see you, insta-mom.
Not just the you that you let us see, but the real you, the part that makes you human, the part I identify with.
And I love you just a little bit more for it. Welcome to the club.
