Amanda Miller Littlejohn; Getty Images; Tyler Le/BI
I had my teen sons in my late 20s, and by age 30, I was parenting two toddlers. Now I'm over 40, raising a toddler once again, and I am not the same.
I grew up as your typical high-achieving, elder millennial. Once I became a mother, I saw parenting as my most high-stakes assignment and was determined to ace it.
Unimpressed by the handful of mommy-and-me arts and music classes I toured with my firstborn once he was of age, I set out to design my own exploratory arts curriculum rooted in African-American culture.
At home, I introduced the boys to the music of Fela Kuti and John Coltrane and the art of Jacob Lawrence, Romare Bearden, and Jean-Michel Basquiat. We'd attempt our own mixed-media collages and paint with watercolors on the floor while the polyrhythms of Afrobeat music filled our kitchen.
When they were toddlers, I was their teacher. I'd structure their days tightly with breakfast, a lesson of some sort, and a morning outing to a museum, forest trail walk, or errands with me before going back home for lunch. Then, I'd put them down for their afternoon nap, during which I'd work on projects for my consulting clients.
I remember touring several day care facilities and even using one for a few months. But ultimately, my husband and I both decided the boys were better off at home with me, where I could more closely oversee their development.
I was obsessed with the idea of them learning and "getting ahead" even before they officially started school. When my kids were 2 and 3, I'd buy the Lego bricks kit, puzzles, and coloring books designed for the 4- and 5-year-olds. I was always pushing them to reach beyond average; I wanted them to be exceptional.
If they showed an inkling of interest in anything at all, I'd search for lessons, camps, and classes. I purchased an obscene amount of professional art supplies, often investing hundreds of dollars without them asking.
To be clear, no one pressured me; I pressured myself. I saw my overachieving as a way to set them up for future success in a hyper-competitive world. I didn't come from money, but what I lacked in generational wealth to pass on, I made up for in pure grit.
When they officially entered school at 3 and 4, I felt confident my sons were on track. My youngest was reading and my eldest was studying in a Chinese immersion school. Official piano lessons would start the following year. I still kept a close eye on their cultivation outside the classroom.
Courtesy Amanda Miller Littlejohn
Being a high-achieving mother while striving to grow my career and get a business off the ground meant I often put myself last. My parenting style came at the expense of my own inner child — the freedom to be joyful and build a stronger relationship with myself.
I stopped cultivating my interests in the way I had done before I had kids and instead poured all of that tending energy into my children. I stopped writing creatively, reading for pleasure, and hanging out with girlfriends, just to be silly. Instead, I approached my spare time as an opportunity to get ahead. Each moment had to earn its keep.
So, by the time I gave birth to my daughter at the end of 2020 — 12 years after I had my last son — I was fried. Her arrival in the middle of the pandemic kicked off a profound season of burnout for me as I, knocking on 40, was forced to acknowledge my limits. My daughter helped me rest. She also helped me find community.
We had kept our sons home in the first years of their lives, and with a deadly virus on the loose and the vaccine in its early stages, we felt it best to keep our daughter home as well. But right after she turned 1, her pediatrician recommended we enroll her in a local home-based day care so she could get out of the house and be with other kids. We tried it out and found it was the perfect fit for her.
No, it wasn't a Montessori program employing the latest research on childhood socio-emotional development, but she seemed to enjoy it. She was having fun each day, showed affection to her teachers, and seemed to like being part of a cohort of her peers.
I shifted my focus from asking, 'Is she getting ahead?' to, 'Is she becoming a happily adjusted person in the world?' And when I realized that the answer was yes — and that was its own way to get ahead — that was good enough for me.
When my boys were little, I thought motherhood was something I had to push through alone. Hundreds of miles away from family in Tennessee, my husband and I didn't have much family help with the kids. Back then, most of the mothers at their school were older than I was, as the women my age hadn't started having children yet.
But this time around, more of my contemporaries have toddlers, too, which means I have a built-in community. So now, instead of trying to get a gold star for thinking of everything myself, I regularly reach out to copy their homework.
My girl-mom network has shared hand-me-down winter coats, barely-worn Easter dresses, and pediatric specialist recommendations. They've passed on enrollment links to Saturday soccer and their copious notes on elementary school options. They've done the homework to find the best 3-year-old ballet class; they've already found a hair braider who makes house calls and is good with squirming toddlers.
I used to feel guilty asking for recommendations, like I was cutting in line. I've always pulled my own weight and done more than expected; I never wanted to be perceived as a slacker. But I've learned relying on my network to hook me up doesn't make me lazy, unserious, or checked out as a parent. Their support keeps me from running myself down.
In my 30s, I was terrified that if I alone somehow failed to overwork and overachieve as a parent, I would hold my kids back. But my mindset has evolved as I've matured, so now I give myself grace.
When my older kids were small, I was parenting under the gun, as if so much was at stake if I didn't push them to achieve. I think a big part of my self-worth was tied up in how well I performed in motherhood. Each of their accomplishments was like a gold star — proof that I was indeed a good mother. If they weren't ahead, or at least on track, I was failing.
I think that's largely because I viewed them as "my greatest achievements" and their own achievements as necessary currency for their future happiness and success.
I realize that the way the world is set up, a level of achievement is necessary but perhaps not required for the type of happiness or success they will eventually seek. They are not me. We are alike in many ways, but in some ways, we are different. They tell me they appreciate the early push, but did they need that to get where they are? I'm not so sure.
Courtesy Amanda Miller Littlejohn
Being more laid back this time around means I'm more present. I'm not my daughter's CEO or performance coach — I'm just mommy. Now, I play with no agenda; every toy doesn't have to teach a new skill, and every game doesn't have to be a stepping stone.
I think mothers are beginning to renegotiate the idea that we must pour every ounce of free time and effort into our kids to be considered "good," and for us to be considered good mothers. By all means, we want them to be great, but we are also learning to trust they'll find their way. Their paths don't have to be so engineered; we can let them simply unfold.
My daughter is 3 years old and not reading yet like my older kids were at her age, but she's one of the most socially intelligent people I know. So, instead of comparing her to her brothers, I'm nurturing her natural gifts and valuing her uniqueness. I'm learning to parent her as a person, not as a project for extra credit.
It's not that I strive to do the bare minimum as a mother now, but I realize overworking isn't practical or required at this stage in my life. I've already done the work, and for the most part, the kids are all right. I don't have to burn myself out for them to be OK.
