Shhh, I’m Escaping to the Coffee Shop (Happy Mother’s Day)

“I’ve got a drip coffee for here,” announced the barista.

It’s Mother’s Day and I’ve hurried to a local coffee shop. It’s one of my favorites – Rising Star – and one I try to escape to every Sunday for two hours or so.

Getting here involves a comical slinking out of the house. I’m as quiet as a mouse, and my computer and purse are packed the night before. I don’t brush my teeth, wash my face or even flush the toilet –  I’m in stealth mode.

Depending on what time I wake up, I may even arrive before the coffee shop opens (7am) as an attempt to avoid my toddler’s wake up time. In this case, I scroll my phone in my car, feeling like a teenager who has just gotten away with sneaking out of the house for the night.

Today was less lucky. My three year old stomped around our bed for what felt like an hour, whispering to himself while he played with dinosaurs, just moments after our 2 year old had yelled out “MAMA” at the highest decibel possible (no doubt immediately falling back asleep but waking everyone else in the house in the process).

My husband and I each kept our eyes close, daring the other to admit we were awake, which would require us to trudge out of bed, hold the hand of our three-year-old and convince him that it was not yet morning.

Finally, I admitted defeat. I opened my eyes, seeing that the room was bright with the early morning sunlight. I stumbled to the bathroom, past my toddler. “Morning mama,” he said, cheerful and innocent.

“I pooped.”

“Okay, honey” I replied, focusing on getting out the door to the coffee shop before the second child fully woke up (and required breastfeeding and diaper changes and cuddles) which would foil my writing plans. I’d get to the poop in a minute.

My toddler toddled back to our bed to visit my husband, still attempting to sleep. “Ahhh. Out of the bed!” my husband suddenly yelped. “Rachel! There’s poop on my arm!” he announced.

And thus, Mother’ Day officially began.

I changed my three year old, breastfed him (yes, we’re still doing that in the mornings), and threw on the clothes I had set out the night before. I explained that mommy was going to a coffee shop and would be back to get us to church in an hour and a half. “Robert needs milk too, mama.”

“Yes, honey. Robert will get milk when mama comes back from the coffee shop.”

Breastfeeding two babies was manageable now that we had some boundaries around it – I only breastfed my three-year-old in the mornings, and my two-year-old before naps and bed. Otherwise, I felt extremely touched out, and sometimes awkward in front of others who I fear judged me for continued feeding at this age.

I was juggling the stay-at-home-mom life with the working-mom life; I worked two days out of the home a week, in roles I adored (bedside nursing and teaching nursing). It was a good fit for me.

My husband had been working 80 hours weeks for the last four months, and it had taken a toll on me and our family unit. I had been caring for myself as best as I could manage– getting a babysitter a few hours a week so I could do house administration or journal, therapy once a week, Zumba Thursday nights, and my solo coffee dates Sunday morning. We had originally planned for the coffee morning to be an opportunity for me to connect with friends, but I found myself particularly protective about the alone time.

We had only created this schedule once a couple’s counselor recommended it, and it’s the best thing that could have happened for me in terms of a routine that included self care.

Why is it so hard to ask for help sometimes?

If you’ve read previous articles, you know that our babies were born in France. This highly impacted the way I view being a stay at home parent as I fought my subconscious beliefs about my worth as a stay-at-home mom.

For example, one French friend once told me, “You know, being a stay-at-home parent is a full-time job, even when you have childcare.” She blew my mind.

We can’t afford childcare here in the United States, where it costs as much as a mortgage, so we rely on my parents to provide care to the babies when I work. In France, we paid $750 per month for full time care for two children. We had also hired a house cleaner; we paid for $15 an hour, 4 hours a month. I was so sleep deprived at that state, the childcare and housekeeper were my saving grace.

I honestly think I would have had a mental breakdown without those support systems in place.

When we moved back to the US, I tried to keep in mind the peace and sanity that childcare and cleaners provided. However, paying $400 a month for a housekeeper is hard to stomach after European prices. We hoped to send the kids to daycare twice a week just for socialization and my own wellbeing, but that alone was going to cost $1100 a month. For two days a week.

What I found instead was a deep reliant on the women around me – mostly, if not all, Mamas (yes, capitalized today).

The women in my life were the ones checking in on me, swapping meals, and mothering our children together. When my husband was working every weekend, my girlfriends were the ones feeding me dinner or bathing my children (we’d just throw them all in the tub together – honestly, I think these are some of my favorite memories from the past year). When I could, I’d be the one bringing dinner.

We’d meet up at someone’s house or a park for coffee to talk about our lives and lean on each other. When my niece died at 5 weeks, they were there, balancing fresh baguettes and croissants on the porch step for me to find on a hard day.

They were the late night and early morning texts, the hilarious Instagram reels that were all-too relatable. They were the 9-minute voice notes, the vulnerable conversations, the shoulders we leaned on when we realized we were around people with whom we could be real, and exhale. The number of tears I have shed in the last year around other caring Mamas? Couldn’t count ‘em.

They were the hand-me-down givers and the help-with-sleep experts, the toilet-training cliff notes and the “which pediatrician are you using?” resource. They were a sisterhood of understanding.

No one can really prepare you for the mental, emotional, and physical load of being a Mama. You are someone’s everything, all day long. Every day. Weekdays, weekends, holidays. You are the one the whole family looks to to manage emotions, learn about parenting, plan activities.

If you’re in a balanced home, maybe you have a second parent who is checking in, cleaning or cooking or meal prepping or dog walking or taking over bath time. Maybe you’re in a hard season where you don’t have that help and you’re doing it alone. Maybe you’re a single Mama, or a married single Mama. I see you.

Maybe you’re a Mama who has lost. I see you.

Maybe you’re a Mama who from the outside appears to have it all, but life seems hard and feels incomplete. I see you.

Maybe you’re a Mama through adoption, fostering, or surrogacy. Maybe you’re a Step-Mama learning to love on children who are now intertwined in your life. Maybe you’re a Mama-in-waiting, hoping, praying, and aching for a baby. I see you.

Maybe you’re a Mama navigating postpartum, hormones, and identity shifts. A Mama of a child with special needs. A Mama who is grieving your own Mama today. A Mama to grown children, wondering how the years flew by so quickly. I see you.

Maybe you’re a Mama showing up in small ways, wondering if it's enough. It is. I see you.

Maybe you’re a Mama who’s breaking cycles and healing old wounds. I see you.

Wherever you find yourself on this Mother’s Day, know that you are seen. You are worthy of care, of rest, of joy, and of help! We were never meant to mother alone.

Let me be the first reminder to you today that the women in your life are ready and willing for you to lean on them. It’s okay to not be okay. I'll be the first to admit we're just figuring it out as we go.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mamas, from my heart to yours.

“Know that you are the best mom for your child, even on the days when you doubt yourself. …Never doubt the power of your love. It overcomes so many of our perceived mom faults.”

-Brooke at Happy Simple Mom