From Goldfish to Eye Rolls — Motherhood 2.0

There’s something wild about hitting this stage of motherhood —
The one where your child isn’t a baby anymore, but somehow still needs you… just in more complicated, emotionally expensive ways.

My son is 11 now, and motherhood looks very different these days.
It’s less about sleepless nights and more about emotional check-ins, growing pains, and deep (and often sarcastic) conversations that leave me thinking, “When did you get this grown?”

No more bottles. No midnight feedings.
No diaper bags or full-blown meltdowns in the cereal aisle.
(okay — there’s still attitude in Aisle 6, but it hits different now.)

Now it’s:
“Bruh”
“Mom, c’mon.”
“Mom, I’m not a baby anymore… but can I still sleep in your bed tonight?”

He feeds himself. Dresses himself.
Negotiates screen time like a lawyer.
Leaves wet towels on the bed.
Eats like a grown man but forgets to put anything away.
And yes, casually tells me I’m embarrassing while still asking me where his socks are.

This is a different kind of motherhood.

And here’s the thing no one warns you about:

Motherhood doesn’t end when the baby stage does. It just evolves.

Now I’m parenting through the shifting tides of independence and hormones- which include lots of eye rolls. I’m holding space for his big feelings while navigating my own. I’m making peace with the fact that he doesn’t always want to hang out with me — even though I spent years being his entire world.

Now it’s navigating sarcasm and screen time limits.
It’s reminding him to shower and having to sniff his hair afterward to confirm.

It’s random pokémon cards, earbuds, and half-eaten granola bars in cupholders.
It’s trying to bond while also wondering who this tiny man-child is becoming.

It’s holding space for his emotions — while quietly battling your own.

And yeah, sometimes it’s lonely.
Sometimes it stings when he doesn’t want to cuddle anymore.
When he chooses headphones over conversation.
When he rolls his eyes, and you remember the baby who once clung to your chest like you were home.

It’s a weird, beautiful, heartbreaking space to be in.

And it’s also a chance.

A chance to rediscover me.
To reclaim the pieces of myself I put on hold when I had him at 19.

To remember that I was someone before “Mom.”
And she? She’s still in there. She’s just buried under years of surviving.

Now I’m reclaiming her.
Bit by bit.

Because I want my son to see something different.
Something real.

That moms don’t have to lose themselves to raise good humans.
That love isn’t only given — it’s modeled.
That joy, boundaries, softness, strength, and ambition can all coexist.

We don’t stop becoming just because they grow.

So if you’re here — in this weird middle zone where the snacks are no longer goldfish but the identity crisis still hits?

Welcome.

Let’s raise these kids with all we’ve got —
but let’s raise ourselves with the same damn energy. 💛