If I were to choose a single word to describe my maternity leave with Phoebe – and perhaps my entire parenting journey as of late – it would be “imperfect.”

That’s the polite version.

The last few months have been blurry and chaotic, tinged with uncertainty, exhaustion and the awkward newness of juggling three instead of two. I feel clumsy and inept.

Just this week, I’ve chased my disconcertingly independent 4-year-old through Target after realizing, a bit too late, that she’d decided to find the bathroom by herself. I’ve caved too easily, snapped too often and raised my voice too quickly. I’ve skipped too many steps in our routine, traded quality time for screen time and spread myself thin as tissue – resulting in nothing getting done well, and some things not getting done at all.

Right before I sat down to write this, I stopped to change Phoebe’s diaper and realized that her pajamas are covered in taco sauce, remnants from a lunch eaten at lightning speed over a nursing baby. That’s basically life as we know it right now – sweet but embarrassingly messy.