Reflecting on a playdate from eight years ago, I remember when my first child was a toddler and I was pregnant with my daughter. I had already encountered my share of parenting hurdles—failing to breastfeed as I had hoped, grappling with sleepless nights, and the endless saga of potty training. However, I felt confident about behavior and discipline; my son was the picture of calm. At another mom’s house, he sat quietly, engrossed in books and stacking blocks, never once thinking about jumping off furniture or throwing toys.
Yet, I observed other kids doing just that. With pursed lips, I couldn’t help but shake my head. Was it really that hard to manage your child? Why let them leap off couches or tackle other kids? What was wrong with these children—or their mothers?
Months later, I welcomed my daughter, who, like her brother, was well-behaved and easy to manage. I maintained my high ground, judging the other moms at playdates and parks, thinking I had it all figured out. But then came my third child—a boy who would turn my parenting world upside down.
From his first steps, I knew I was in trouble. When he threw a book at me during storytime or stacked stools to reach forbidden cookies, I realized karma had come knocking. I now understood what it meant to have a child who couldn’t control his actions or volume.
I became familiar with the judgmental glances from strangers like Linda at the grocery store, who shot me disapproving looks as my son climbed out of the cart or pulled down cans from the shelf. Church became a challenge; while my older two could sit quietly, my youngest would stroll up and down the pew, blissfully unaware of the need to whisper.
He’s the kid who goes up the slide backward, who cuts in line for cupcakes, and who once broke a treasured family vase. (Seriously, if you have breakable items, maybe skip inviting us over.) I vividly recall his three-year checkup at the pediatrician. He bounced off the exam table, threw paper, and plotted a game of The Floor is Lava with the chairs. I was embarrassed and exhausted. The doctor smiled and assured me, “He’s just a normal, healthy little boy.” I was baffled.
Having had two children who were relatively calm and obedient, I couldn’t comprehend why my third seemed to lack the same understanding of consequences. The pediatrician explained that at his age, kids often act first and learn about consequences later—similar to how teenagers sometimes make poor decisions. It was a revelation that offered some clarity, though challenges remained.
I learned that my son isn’t a bad kid; he’s not unkind. When he playfully hits someone with a toy, he’s just asking to engage. If he cuts in line, it’s not out of malice; he simply sees an opportunity. Often, he’ll take an extra cupcake and share it with the other kid anyway.
Another important lesson I discovered is that moms of wild kids are doing their best. We discipline, we try, and we understand the limitations of our children. My son can’t sit still for an hour, let alone five minutes, which is why he roams around the table during dinner. I’ve learned to adjust my expectations, knowing that a couple of books won’t keep him entertained. For every “no” I have to say to him, it’s multiplied when I’m managing his siblings.
And I’ve made it clear to everyone around us: if you ever give this child caffeine, you’re dead to me.
My experience with my third child has transformed my approach to parenting. Now, when we make plans, we consider whether there’s space for him to move and be loud. If not, we know it probably won’t work out—and that’s perfectly fine. He has his whole life ahead of him to learn to be quiet and still. For now, he’ll spend his days building forts and living life to the fullest, while I try to keep my hair from turning gray.
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In summary, I sincerely apologize to all the moms of spirited children. It’s a journey filled with challenges, but we are all navigating this wild ride together.
Keyphrase: Apology to Moms of Wild Kids
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