Deanna After Dark

I’m a mom of four: one teenager and three young adults. If you are a first-time mom feeling deeply in love, totally overwhelmed, and somehow both exhausted and alert, welcome. You are officially in the club.

I remember those early days so clearly. The baby was tiny, my emotions were huge, and I was absolutely convinced that every other mom on Earth had been handed a secret handbook I somehow missed. Everyone else seemed calm and capable, while I was over here trying to figure out whether that cry meant hunger, gas, exhaustion, or “I would simply like to scream for sport.”

Now, after years of motherhood with kids from teen to grown, I can tell you something I wish I had heard sooner: you do not have to do this perfectly to do it well.

You learn motherhood as you go. It is built during quiet late-night feedings, during diaper changes you could do with your eyes closed by week three, and as you start to recognize your baby’s sounds and needs. It does not happen all at once. It grows in you.

At first, caring for a newborn can feel like a nonstop guessing game. Feed the baby, change the baby, burp the baby, soothe the baby, and then start all over again just a few minutes later.

The truth is, newborns do not need a polished, picture-perfect mom. They need a safe, loving, responsive one.

Feeding is often where new moms feel the most pressure, so I want to say this: the goal is a fed baby. Whether you breastfeed, pump, use formula, or mix things up as you go, you are not failing if it looks different from what you expected. Babies are humbling, and motherhood rarely goes exactly as planned.

You will also find that diapers become a big part of your daily life. Keep supplies handy. Have wipes close by. Do not underestimate diaper cream. These small practical things help make each day easier.

Then there are all the baby noises: grunts, squeaks, hiccups, sighs, and other tiny sounds that seem dramatic for someone so small. Newborns are wonderfully strange. You will learn what is normal for your baby, and that confidence will come sooner than you expect.

Let us talk about newborn sleep – or really, about chaos.

Newborns do not arrive knowing anything about bedtime. They cannot tell night from day, and they do not care that you need four hours of sleep in a row. It feels unfair, but it is normal.

What helps most is setting a gentle routine, not strict rules.

During the day, keep things bright and active with natural light and normal household sounds. At night, make things calm and quiet with dim lights, soft voices, and as little stimulation as possible. Over time, your baby will start to notice the difference.

A simple bedtime routine helps too. It does not have to be fancy. A diaper change, feeding, swaddle or sleep sack if needed, cuddles, and a calm place to sleep can make a big difference. Babies love repetition, even if they act like they do not.

Please remember: your baby’s sleep is not a measure of your parenting. Some babies sleep well. Some act like sleep is the enemy. Most are somewhere in between. Temperament, development, and luck all play a part. You are not doing it wrong just because your baby is being a baby.

One of the best tips I ever got was to rest when you can, but do not stress over impossible advice. “Sleep when the baby sleeps” sounds great until you realize that is also when you need to shower, eat, answer a text, cry a little, or just sit with your coffee. Do what you can. That is enough.

This is so important, and I say it as someone who has spent years raising kids of all ages: do not lose yourself in motherhood.

Yes, your world changes when you have a baby. Of course it does. But you are still a person. Still yourself. Still worthy of care, rest, joy, and attention.

During the newborn stage, balance might not look glamorous. It could just mean taking a shower without rushing, drinking your coffee hot once every few days, or walking outside for ten minutes to remember there is more to life than burp cloths and baby laundry.

Hold on to small parts of yourself. Read a chapter of a book. Listen to a podcast while folding tiny pajamas. Text a friend who makes you laugh. Sit in silence for five minutes after the baby falls asleep instead of jumping into another chore. These tiny moments matter.

Let people help you. I cannot stress this enough. If someone you trust offers to bring dinner, hold the baby, fold laundry, or run an errand, say yes. Motherhood is not meant to be an endurance test. There is no medal for doing it all alone.

If you have a partner, let them learn about the baby, too. Try not to become the only one who knows everything. Shared parenting might look different from your way, but that does not mean it is wrong. Let others grow into their role with you.

After raising four kids, I can say with confidence that the baby industry wants you to think your newborn needs everything in a boutique. They do not.

What you really need is much simpler.

You will want a safe place for your baby to sleep, like a bassinet or crib, with fitted sheets and a few swaddles or sleep sacks. You will need diapers, wipes, diaper cream, and an easy-to-reach changing setup. For feeding, bottles are helpful even if you plan to breastfeed, and you will want plenty of burp cloths – enough for a minor flood.

A few zip-up sleepers, onesies, socks, a baby thermometer, baby wash, a nasal aspirator, an infant car seat, a stroller, and a diaper bag will cover most needs. A baby carrier can be a lifesaver on clingy days when your baby wants to be held, but dinner still needs to get made.

And for you, Mom, do not forget your own essentials. Postpartum care supplies, comfy clothes, a big water bottle, easy snacks, lip balm, phone charger, and a bedside basket of things you use often can make recovery and long feeding sessions much easier.

Honestly, one of the most important things is not sold in stores. It is grace. Grace for yourself when the day is messy. Grace when feeding is hard. Grace when you thought you would handle motherhood one way, but reality had other plans.

This season is beautiful, but it can also be lonely, repetitive, emotional, and hard. Two things can be true at once. You can love your baby and still miss your old routine. You can feel grateful and overwhelmed. You can be deeply happy and deeply tired.

That does not mean you are doing motherhood wrong. It means you are a real mom living real life.

One day, you will realize you do not panic at every little sound. You will leave the house fully packed and actually remember the diapers. You will settle your baby with confidence and think, maybe without even noticing, “I know what I’m doing.”

And you will.

Not because someone called you an expert. Not because the hard parts disappeared. But because love teaches us, one ordinary day at a time.

Now, with one teenager and three young adults, I can tell you with all my heart: these early days feel long, but they do pass. The baby who kept you up all night will someday ask for gas money, borrow your good towels, and eat everything in your pantry. And somehow, you will miss the weight of that tiny newborn on your chest.

So be gentle with yourself. Let the house be messy sometimes. Keep dinner simple. Accept help. Hold your baby. Rest when you can. Laugh whenever you can.

You are not behind. You are not failing. You are becoming a mom, and that is sacred work.

There should honestly be a medal for moms who pack school lunches without losing their last nerve before 7:00 a.m.

Every morning, I find myself competing in a completely unrecognized event called Making A Lunch For A Teenager Using Ingredients They Swore They Wanted But Will Probably Reject By Noon.

I’m a mom of four: one teenager and three young adults. That means I have been feeding kids for what feels like several lifetimes. You would think I would have this lunch thing figured out by now. Maybe I would be one of those calm, organized moms who meal-preps on Sunday, labels everything, and wakes up ready to put together cute lunches with a smile.

That is not what happens here.

But what really happens is I shuffle into the kitchen half-awake, open the fridge, and stare at it like it has let me down.

Because somehow, despite the amount of money I spend at the grocery store every single week, there is still allegedly “nothing to eat.”

Nothing.

This is in a house that has bread, turkey, cheese, yogurt, fruit, leftovers, granola bars, crackers, frozen breakfast sandwiches, and enough condiments to run a small sandwich shop.

Apparently, none of that counts.

I’m not saying lunch was perfect when my older kids were younger, but it was definitely simpler.

Back then, a sandwich, some apple slices, a juice box, and a cookie felt like a win. Yogurt tubes were exciting. Crackers in a baggie were practically a luxury. I could toss together something in five minutes and feel like I had accomplished a solid act of motherhood.

Little kid lunches were not that deep.

Then my kids grew up.

And now I have a teenager.

Teenagers are a fascinating bunch. They are always hungry, suddenly picky, and somehow get upset by food they asked for just two days earlier.

One day, it is, “Please do not pack sandwiches anymore.”

The next day, it is, “Why didn’t you pack a sandwich?”

Then it becomes, “I need more snacks.”

Followed immediately by, “Not those snacks.”

It is honestly impressive.

Packing lunch for a teenager feels less like taking care of someone and more like trying to hit a moving target while blindfolded, holding a string cheese.

I buy what they ask for. I really do.

I make the list. I remember the favorite chips. I grab the protein bars. I buy the yogurt they like this week. I come home feeling prepared, responsible, maybe even slightly ahead of the game.

And yet, by the time I need to pack a lunch, it looks like a group of wild raccoons broke into the pantry and helped themselves.

The chips are gone.

The granola bars are gone.

The “save these for lunches” drinks are gone.

The cheese sticks have vanished without explanation.

And somehow, every empty box goes back in the pantry with just one crushed serving left, which feels less like someone forgot and more like a small act of sabotage.

Then, inevitably, somebody walks into the kitchen, looks around at a house full of groceries, and says, “There is nothing to eat.”

That sentence alone should qualify moms for some kind of support group.

This is one of the great rewards of parenting older kids: even after they no longer need you to pack a lunch, they still somehow find ways to weigh in.

They wander into the kitchen with coffee, watching me like I’m part of a show about how long moms can last.

“Oh wow, you are still making lunches?”

No, sweetheart. I just enjoy sorting snack foods in low lighting before sunrise.

Or they will say something like, “Remember those wraps you used to make us? Those were so good.”

Yes, I do remember those wraps.

I remember making them.

I remember carefully packing them.

And I also remember finding those same wraps untouched in a lunchbox later, warm and a little soggy, as if they did not want to be there at all.

It is amazing how nostalgic people get about food they never actually ate.

Nothing brings a mom back to reality faster than opening a lunch bag at the end of the day.

Because there it is: the sandwich you made, the snack they requested, the yogurt you remembered they liked, all sitting there untouched like they were never given a chance.

You will find an unopened yogurt, a bruised banana, a sandwich with one tiny bite taken out of it, and mystery crumbs from something you definitely did not pack.

At that point, it turns into an investigation.

Were they too busy to eat?

Did they hate it?

Did they trade it for cookies?

Did the banana suffer alone?

You stand in your kitchen, trying not to take it personally, but somehow, you always do – at least a little.

After all, that lunch was made with love, exhaustion, and the last container lid that actually fit.

This is one of life’s great mysteries.

They never mention needing a special lunch while you are at the store.

They never bring it up when you ask if anybody needs anything.

They never think to tell you during dinner, when food is literally already being discussed.

No, they wait until nighttime, when you are finally done for the day in every way.

You are in bed. Face washed. One sock off. Mentally gone.

And then they appear in the doorway and say something like, “Hey, I need a lunch tomorrow, but not a normal lunch because I have practice after school, so I need more food, but nothing heavy, and it has to be quick to eat, and I do not want a sandwich.”

Excellent.

Let me just open my late-night deli again.

Here is one thing motherhood has taught me: presentation matters.

At this point, I can make almost any random assortment of food sound intentional.

It is not leftovers. It is meal prep.

It is not a handful of crackers, turkey, fruit, and two cookies because I ran out of ideas. It is a protein box.

It is not me giving up completely. It is a deconstructed lunch.

Honestly, being a mom is part love, part logistics, and part creative spin.

If I put it in a divided container and say it with confidence, everybody acts like it was planned all along.

I would like answers.

Why do I own a mountain of reusable containers and yet can never find a matching lid?

Where do the lids go?

Why is there always one perfect container and forty-six useless tops that fit absolutely nothing?

Every morning, I’m digging through that cabinet like I’m on a game show called Find The Right Lid Before The Bus Comes.

And when I finally find a matching lid, it feels less like being organized and more like a small miracle.

For all the joking and complaining, school lunch is never really just about school lunch.

It is one of those tiny, repetitive acts of motherhood that carries more love than anyone notices in the moment.

It is remembering what they like this week.

It is packing extra because they have practice.

It is tossing in their favorite snack because you know they have a long day ahead.

It is one more quiet way of saying, “I’m thinking about you, even while I’m standing in this messy kitchen looking for a lid and wondering who ate all the chips.”

And after raising three young adults and still packing lunches for one teenager, I have learned something important:

It does not have to be perfect.

It does not have to be adorable, color-coordinated, homemade from scratch, or worthy of a social media post.

It just has to work.

Some days, that means a cute container of pasta salad and fruit.

Other days, that means a granola bar, a cheese stick, and lunch money with a heartfelt plea to please eat something with protein.

Both count.

Both are love.

So here is to the moms in the morning trenches.

Here is to the early alarms, the empty snack boxes, the missing ice packs, the mystery crumbs, the ever-changing preferences, and the kids who insist there is no food in a house full of groceries.

Here is to doing it anyway.

To packing the sandwich, even when they said they did not want it.

To trying again tomorrow.

To knowing that sometimes, being a mom looks less like perfection and more like deli turkey, a bruised banana, and pure determination.

And honestly? That still counts as showing up beautifully.

A certain kind of panic hits moms right around 4:35 p.m.

It shows up when you realize dinner is still just an idea, the dog has thrown up on the rug, your teenager claims to be “starving” while ignoring a kitchen full of food, and someone online just posted a color-coded chore chart, homemade sourdough, and a family hike photo with the caption “Just soaking up these sweet years.”

Ma’am.

Some of us are not soaking up anything. Some of us are barely marinating.

If you have been feeling behind lately, hear this from a mom with one teenager and three young adults: you are not behind. You are just in the middle of it.

And what you are in is loud, expensive, sticky, emotionally confusing, and somehow always hungry.

I used to believe there would be a magical day when I finally felt caught up. The house would be clean, the calendar organized, meals planned, and I would move through motherhood in a linen blouse, giving wise advice and cut-up fruit.

That day has not come.

Instead, I have dealt with science fair meltdowns, senior pictures, driving lessons, college applications, strange smells, heartbreaks, group texts, forgotten forms, and the huge amount of groceries it takes to feed almost-grown kids who open the fridge every five minutes hoping for something new.

I have raised toddlers who licked shopping carts, kids who needed me constantly, teens who seemed annoyed by everything I said, and young adults who texted to ask how long to bake chicken they had no intention of baking themselves.

Let me tell you, as someone who has found wet towels in every room: motherhood never really feels completely together.

It just looks different over time.

When they are little, you feel behind because you cannot keep up with the mess.

When they are older, you feel behind because you cannot keep up with the emotional bandwidth required to parent people who are becoming themselves in real time.

And when they become young adults, you feel behind because no one warned you that letting go is a full-time job with bad benefits and lots of surprise crying in the car.

So no, you are not behind because you forgot Spirit Day.

You are not behind because the baby book ended after six pages.

You are not behind because your pantry looks like raccoons run your household.

You are not behind because your kid had cereal for dinner and lived to tell the tale.

You are not behind because everyone else seems better at this.

Here is what “everyone else seems better at this” really means: everyone else hides in the bathroom sometimes, too.

As my kids get older, I am more convinced that motherhood is less about having it all figured out and more about just being there.

Staying when they are moody.
Staying when they are messy.
Staying when they are thrilled.
Staying when they are impossible.
Staying even when you are not sure if you are doing a great job or just giving your kids stories for future therapy.

Showing up counts for a lot.

Actually, it counts for almost everything.

My kids do not remember whether I alphabetized the spice rack.
They do not speak in reverent tones about my baseboards.
Not one of them has ever said, “What really shaped me was Mom’s consistency with seasonal porch décor.”

What they remember is that I was there.

I was there when they were excited.
I was there when they were devastated.
I was there when they needed a ride, a snack, $20, a pep talk, a reality check, or someone to pretend not to notice they were crying.

That is the stuff.

Not the Pinterest stuff.
Not the performative stuff.
Not the polished stuff.

The real stuff.

I know it is hard not to compare yourself to impossible standards. We see so many perfect images of motherhood that make it seem like if you just tried harder, organized more, woke up earlier, labeled more bins, and served cuter vegetables, you could be one of those calm moms whose kids never lose a shoe on the way out.

But some of the best moms I know are not polished.

They are the faithful ones.

They are the moms who keep loving.
Keep apologizing.
Keep trying again.
Keep making dinner out of random freezer items and calling it a “fun mix-and-match night.”
Keep texting their grown kids reminders to check the oil and, somehow, remember everyone’s favorite cake.

They are tired.
They are funny.
They are doing their best with tired bodies, busy minds, and hearts that never get a break.

That is not behind.

That is real heroism, even with a messy bun.

So if today you feel like everyone else got the instruction manual and you just have a half-eaten granola bar and a school email you forgot to answer, let this remind you:

You do not need to catch up to be a good mom.

Your kids do not need your perfection.
They need your presence.

They need the version of you who keeps coming back after a hard day.
The version that says, “I’m sorry.”
The version that laughs.
The version that loves them when they are wonderful and when they act like tiny, wild CEOs.

And maybe, just maybe, you need that reminder too.

You are allowed to be a beautiful mess in progress.
You are allowed to have a life that looks full, not flawless.
You are allowed to mother imperfectly and still do it incredibly well.

I am past the sippy cup stage and now dealing with teen attitudes, kids leaving home, and adult kids who text with a “quick question” that somehow costs me time and money.

From where I am now, I can tell you this:

The moms who think they are behind are often the ones caring the hardest.

You are not failing.
You are carrying a lot.

So drink your reheated coffee.
Ignore at least one non-essential chore.
Text the kid.
Hug your teenager if they let you, and if not, show them love in your own way.
Make an easy dinner.
Buy the store-bought cupcakes.
Let the laundry sit one more day if necessary.

This season does not need a perfect mom.

It just needs you.

Snark, grace, and everything in between.

The other morning, I embarrassingly thought I was actually in charge of my own home.

I finally sat down with a hot coffee. No one was asking me where their wallet, charger, water bottle, or even their will to live had gone. For a moment, I felt like I was thriving.

Then my teenager walked into the living room and said, “Before you get upset…”

That is always a fun sentence. So relaxing. It ranks right up there with “We need to talk” and “I heard a weird noise from the car.”

I said, “I’m already upset, and I do not even know why yet. Go on.”

Apparently, one of my older kids decided to “organize” the pantry.

I know what you are probably thinking: how helpful, how mature, what a blessing to have grown kids taking initiative.

But what actually happened was every item from the pantry ended up spread all over my kitchen, like we were preparing for a low-budget game show called Extreme Couponing: Emotional Breakdown Edition.

There were canned goods on the counter, pasta on the table, snacks on the floor, and at least three jars of something nobody here has ever eaten, but someone still bought. I found five open boxes of crackers, four bottles of the same barbecue sauce, and one can of pumpkin purée that had survived for years.

And the kid who started this? Gone.

Vanished.

Apparently, he left to get “organizing supplies,” which is interesting since nothing has actually been put away yet.

So I stood in my kitchen, looking at everything from my pantry laid out like a museum exhibit called Motherhood And The Slow Loss Of Control.

Then, as if they sensed trouble, the rest of the kids started drifting in.

One said, “You should put the snacks where people can see them.”

Oh, should I? So you mean it would be easier for you to eat them all in one day and then text me, “Do we have any snacks?”

Another said, “We should make zones.”

Great idea. Let us make a zone for things nobody finishes, another for things nobody puts back, and a special spot for “Ingredients Purchased For One Recipe In 2020.”

My teenager, who is especially good at stepping over problems, looked around and said, “Honestly, the system before was not working.”

I’m sorry, you mean the system where food just stayed on the shelves? That system?

Please, tell me more, kid who cannot find ketchup unless it is right in front of you with a spotlight on it.

And just to keep things interesting, the original organizer finally came back, looked at the mess he had made, and said, “Wow. This is overwhelming.”

Yes, it is overwhelming – for me. Welcome to my world.

So I spent the next hour putting the pantry back together, all while being watched by people who have never once replaced the kitchen trash bag without acting like it was a huge ordeal.

The whole time, they offered suggestions.

“Maybe label the shelves.”
“Maybe get matching containers.”

Maybe move out.

And of course, later that day, I heard one of them tell their dad, “Mom got kind of stressed when we were helping.”

Helping.

That magical family word meaning “created a bigger mess, contributed one idea, and left for a snack.”

Parenting older kids in a nutshell: they are old enough to make big problems, confident enough to critique how you handle them, and comfortable enough to leave their shoes in the hallway as if they pay the bills.

And yet, I love them fiercely.

But just for the record, if anyone touches my hidden snacks again, they will see how organized I can really be.

The other day, I opened the fridge and just stood there, trying to decide if I live with one teenager and three young adults or a group of very organized raccoons.

How does the fridge get emptied so fast and so thoroughly, but nothing useful ever gets replaced?

Inside, I found half a bottle of mustard, three salad dressings nobody liked enough to finish, a single pickle floating in a jar like the last survivor of a disaster, and one yogurt that looked like it had been there since the kids were homeschooled during the pandemic.

Everything else? Gone.

The turkey I bought for sandwiches? Gone.
The shredded cheese meant for taco night? Gone.
The leftovers I specifically said were dinner for the next day? Absolutely gone.
The expensive berries I bought as a treat? Gone so quickly, you would think they were top secret.

And of course, what was left was the usual: a carton with just two tablespoons of milk, a juice bottle with one lonely sip at the bottom, and a container of leftovers so small it looked more like a science experiment than a meal.

This is what gets me about older kids. They can eat $250 worth of groceries in a day and a half, but somehow replacing anything is impossible.

My teenager will yell, “There is nothing to eat,” while standing in front of a fridge full of ingredients, produce, yogurt, eggs, tortillas, and six kinds of cheese. If food cannot be eaten one-handed straight from the package while staring into space, it does not count.

And the young adults are no better.

They come in, eat as if they are preparing for a polar expedition, and leave behind evidence of their visit in the form of little signs of disrespect.

An empty orange juice carton in the fridge.
An empty cereal box back in the pantry.
A loaf of bread with only the end piece left, as if that means it is not finished.
And my favorite: putting a container back with just one bite left, so technically no one has to admit they finished it.

Honestly, it feels like psychological warfare that deserves a study.

The other morning, I asked, “Who finished the coffee creamer?”

Four faces looked at me with the calm innocence of people who have never known hardship.

“I barely used any,” one said.
“It was almost empty when I got here,” said another, despite living here.
“I thought we had more,” said the teenager, who has never once in his life worried about keeping track of what is in the house.
And one of my young adults, with total confidence, said, “Didn’t you just buy groceries?”

Yes.
Yes, I did.
That is what makes this such a mystery.

I’m basically running a small, unpaid restaurant for people who write “we need food” in the family group chat, as if I’m a distant supplier who let the whole village down.

No one makes a list.
No one notices we are out of anything until the exact moment they want it.
No one throws away the empty container.
But everyone has feedback.

“Do we have anything good?”
“We need more snacks.”
“Why don’t we ever have drinks?”
“You should get that bread I like.”

Oh, you mean the bread you eat in one sitting, then leave the bag open on the counter as a warning to everyone?

And somehow, every grocery trip is the same. I buy food. They eat it all. I find the leftovers. Then someone opens the fridge, looks at the emptiness they created, and says, “There is literally nothing here.”

Literally nothing.

Except for condiments, produce, eggs, yogurt, leftovers, lunch meat, and enough ingredients for six meals. But sure, Jessica, it is a famine.

And yet, because motherhood is cruel, tender, and ridiculous all at once, I know that one day this fridge will stay full.

The berries will last.
The leftovers will remain untouched.
The good cheese will sit there exactly where I put it.
And no one will drink the last of the creamer and put the empty carton back as a small act of domestic sabotage.

And as maddening as it is now, I know I will miss these hungry people one day.

I will miss the slamming fridge door, the constant search for snacks, the teenager claiming he is starving five minutes after eating, and young adults wandering through the kitchen as if it were still their safe place.

But today?

Today, if one more person tells me “there is nothing to eat” while holding a spoon in front of my empty yogurt shelf, I might finally reach the level of character-building everyone says comes with motherhood.