Clara Harper

Having small kids is a struggle for everyone. I’m holding on to that truth tightly.

You know those moms who seem to have it all together? The ones whose kids wear clean, matching outfits. Their makeup is done. They have shoes on. Matching shoes. Their shirts are not only right-side-out but also facing the right direction, and somehow, they match their pants. These moms scare me. They look perfect.

Are their kids really that sweet and well-behaved? Do those moms wake up at 4 a.m. just to get themselves ready before the chaos begins? How do they do it? Do I even want to know? Are they happy? They seem a little plastic, or maybe that’s just my own insecurity talking. Do they have super supportive partners helping with every little thing? Or are they working that hard to appear perfect so they don’t lose something, or someone?

Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe that level of perfection is just their normal. But wow, it looks exhausting.

Here’s the thing: I love my job. I love being a wife. I love being a mom. But none of these things come easy to me. I don’t feel like I have the same 24-hour day that those other moms have.

I’m not naturally calm and gentle. I lose my temper. I cry. I yell. But I laugh, too. I smile. I sing loudly and out of tune. We dance in the kitchen to whatever music is on. My kids might be hooligans — they might make me lose my mind before 8 a.m. trying to find shoes and force them into clothes (and no, being naked is not a viable school option, even if we do miss the chill vibes of the Midwest), but I genuinely love their fart jokes and the pure joy they take in telling them.

I love being the first girl they ever loved. I love the flowers they pick, even though they’re half-dead from being clenched too tightly in sweaty, chubby hands. I love the way they see the world — it gives me hope and breaks my heart open at the same time. I love their shenanigans, and that they feel safe enough with me to be their wild, real selves. They are my little wild wee beasties. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

I love my husband, too. We’re loud and silly. (well, I’m the loud one) We mess up. We sometimes hurt each other’s feelings. But when life throws us into the crapper again (and it always does), his arms are where I end up. He is my constant.

And yes, I love my job. Most of the time. I love using my brain. I love solving tough problems. I love talking to adults. Some days it feels like I clawed my way to this point with fingernails and toenails, bruised and sore, but I made it. And I deserve to be here.

Funny how writing things out gives you clarity. I started this post thinking my priorities were: job, marriage, kids. But the truth poured out in the opposite order, kids, marriage, job. Go figure.

So maybe those perfect moms I see are living a totally different reality. Or maybe it’s just a well-filtered illusion. Either way, I’ll be over here, sweaty from wrestling a kid into pants, with unbrushed hair and unmatched socks, clutching my coffee like it’s a lifeline (because it is).

Let’s keep it real, friends.

Want more chaos, coffee, and kid truths? Grab my latest book Shame is My Monster on Amazon. It’s a heartfelt (and hilarious) story about emotions, resilience, and little monsters who live inside us all.

And you know what? Life is still pretty great.

Along for the ride,
Clara