Motherhood: It's Not Giving What It Was Supposed to Gave

This Spring Break almost broke me. But I’m choosing laughter over a mental breakdown.

Mother.
It’s one of the most powerful names we’ll ever answer to.

This August, I’ll celebrate 15 years of motherhood.

I always wanted twins, and when I found out I was having them, it felt like I’d won the motherhood lottery. When they arrived, I made quiet promises to myself: I’d give them the best of everything. I’d stay home, nurture them, raise leaders with strong character. I even created a custom curriculum that mirrored the top private schools in Charlotte.

I was in my educator-mama bag. Laminated flashcards and everything.
Y’all remember the “Your Baby Can Read” DVDs? Yup, I had them.
And my kids were watching them at a few months old.
Their first few years seemed promising, and all of that emphasis on education paid off, because my kids went to kindergarten reading on a first-grade level — at minimum.

But fast-forward to now: two sets of twins later, and my older set, the E twins (named after their dad), have me questioning everything I thought I knew.

And here is my question…
What in the plot twist is going on here????

They’re in their villain era. And honestly? These kids have almost all the Infinity Stones.

Motherhood? It's… not what I expected.

So what did I expect?

I always heard parenting teenagers would be challenging, but I thought my kids would somehow be exempt. (Yes, I know. Naive. Hopeful. Hilariously optimistic.)

Because I was a dream teenager. My mom will tell you, I was mature, respectful, an overachiever. Class president, prom queen, homecoming queen, captain of the flag & dance squad for the best band in the land (shoutout to James B. Dudley High School in Greensboro, NC), entrepreneur (I made $30 a day selling brownies out of my bookbag), and dating one of the star basketball players.

Just call me Mary because I was poppin’.

Okay, I wasn’t perfect, but I HATED getting in trouble. So I pretty much stayed out of it. My Mom didn’t play. I didn’t want Debra’s smoke.

Now… my kids?

Let’s just say they’re not on track to be on the prom court or the basketball court. They’re barely turning in assignments. And we’re struggling with things like integrity, responsibility, and telling the truth the first time.

And I’m left wondering: How did we get here?

My husband tells me I’m a great mom and that I shouldn’t take this personally.
My mom and sister say the same. So I have witnesses. It’s not me.

But it feels very personal. I feel attacked.

When you build a life around pouring into your children — spiritually, emotionally, financially — and it doesn’t come together the way you hoped, it’s disorienting. It’s painful. And if I can be very honest, it’s embarrassing.

And then came Spring Break.

Because they were struggling in school, I almost didn’t take them anywhere during Spring Break. But then I thought, “We’ll do something simple. Just a little overnight trip to Savannah. Easy, relaxing, fun.”

Huge mistake.

They complained the entire time.
The littles were bouncing off the walls.
The bigs were glued to their screens.

I tried to salvage the trip on the way home with a detour to Hilton Head Island for some scenic water views from the top of the lighthouse, one of my favorite things to do.

(Yes, we are smiling. But that’s because I threatened them within an inch of their life to smile for this photo)

We made it to the top. I gave them their phones to take pictures, soak in the beauty, and make memories.

They took the phones.
Sat on a bench.
And. Scrolled.

The little ones were chasing each other at the top of the lighthouse, going in circles like that Luther Vandross song.

At the top of the lighthouse, y’all! With the ocean breeze! Surrounded by beauty!

I was… what are the words… let’s go with embarrassed.

And for the record, we were the only Black family I saw on the island.
Now, I’m not one to perform for other people, but I also didn’t want to be that family. You know. The only rowdy kids on the island just happened to be the Black ones. It’s days later and I still need to apologize to my ancestors because they did not overcome for us to come over to Hilton Head Island and and act like this.

To make matters worse, my mom and her friend had come along. Two grown women with no young kids, who took time out of their peaceful lives to join us on the trip. Their reward? Being trapped in a traveling circus.

Waving the White Flag

I planned to do more with them the rest of the week but instead, I sent the kids to their grandfather’s house the next day.

I stayed in bed.

Didn’t answer texts. Didn’t respond to calls. I waved the white flag. I cried a little. Ate potato chips for breakfast. Binge-watched Beyond the Gates.

And I let myself be dramatic. Because listen—I earned it.

Normally, I hate how much screen time they get at their grandfather’s house.
But that day? I could not have cared less.

As they say on the plane: put your oxygen mask on first.
I needed mine just to survive the week.

And I think I was so devastated because—family is everything to me.

My mom was a great mom and had great kids. I saw how she was able to hold her head high when it came to her kids because we were awesome. So I figured: if I pour into mine the way she poured into my sister and me, they should turn out great. And my kids had it even better because they came from a two-parent household. Both parents college-educated. Surrounded by loving grandparents.

My mom was a single mom. My grandparents passed before I turned seven.

So when kids do well, we say “Wow—great job, Mom!”
But when kids struggle… in public….it feels like everyone is looking at me like…

So, where’s the lesson in all this?

I’m still trying to figure it out.
But here’s what I’m telling myself so I don’t throw in the towel:

Motherhood is not a measure of my identity, my worth, or my womanhood.
My children are not my report card.
They are not my mirror.
They are not my masterpiece.

They are theirs.

Y’all I think I’m going to change my religion to Jewish because when those kids turn 13 (or 12 for the girls), God no longer holds us responsible for the dumb things they do. Sounds like a plan to me!

And at some point, we have to grieve the version of motherhood we imagined
and begin parenting the children we actually have.

When you’ve done all you can, it’s not you. Their personality is overpowering your parenting. (Whew, that’s a word.)

I’m still hopeful for their future.
I still believe their story isn’t finished.
But I no longer believe I’m a failure just because this chapter is hard.

Or at least—that’s what I’m trying to believe.

So for today, I’ll blame my husband’s genetics. That will make me feel better. Because as a wise anonymous source on Instagram said…

A Note for the Table:

If your kids are acting like villains…
If your motherhood journey feels more like a horror than a Hallmark movie…
If all you can do is eat last night’s snacks for breakfast because you can’t pull your self out of bed to make a decent meal…

You're not alone.
You're not broken.
And you're definitely not failing.

You're just living through the messy, hilarious, humbling middle part of the story.

So laugh when you can.
Cry when you need to.
Blame your husband’s genetics if it helps.
And know this:

You are becoming.
And so are they.
And one day, we’re all going to laugh about this.
(Just not today. Haha! Okay, maybe we are laughing.)

Journal Prompt:

What version of motherhood do you need to grieve—and what do you need to give yourself permission to reimagine?