This entry was written for Mommybloggers by Susan Wagner of Friday Playdate.

Before I had children of my own, children who are able to be both almost unbearably cute and virtually unlovable in the same twenty minute period (multiple times a day), I used to daydream about what it would be like to be the mommy. I looked forward to things like dance recitals and soccer games, but what I most anticipated was the preschool music program.

Because really, what could be cuter than a dozen or so four and five-year-olds singing made-up songs about whatever Hallmark holiday we were celebrating? And then all sitting down at teeny tiny tables to eat themed cookies with their beaming mommies and daddies? The love would be tangible, I was sure. And the cuteness would be enough to kill me.

I’m not a complete idiot, despite what you may think. I’ve read The Mommy Myth; I know that the people at Johnson&Johnson and InStyle magazine work long hard hours to make it appear that motherhood is one photogenic
moment after another. I know that, in real life, those moments--where the kids are playing nicely and maybe even sharing and I am not yelling or hiding in a closet--are few and far between and virtually always occur when no one has a camera. I am aware that the media has created standards of Mommy Perfection that none of us can live up to. But still! Preschoolers! Singing! How could it NOT be cute? How could it NOT be a moment when I would love my sons so much my heart would ache?

In my media-fueled daydream of the preschool music program, I am always wearing something stylish and appropriate and I am always having a good hair day; my smaller child is always entranced by the singing and sits nicely in his chair through the whole performance; I have my video camera ready to roll. My son sings his songs in his beautiful voice; he follows directions; he is wearing a shirt with a collar, and maybe even a little sweater. He comes and hugs me when he is done singing. I laugh and chat with the other preschool mommies, who are all my friends. It is all very cute.

Instead, in my real life, Tuesday’s Valentine’s Day music program will most likely go like this: on the morning of said program, I will oversleep and maybe get a shower (or maybe not). I will realize, too late, that I need a haircut. I will be unable to find anything to wear, as all of my pants are currently too small and most of my shirts are in the dirty laundry. I will throw on something weather-appropriate (meaning warm) and race out the door with
both kids. I will drop Henry at school and dash to Starbucks for a cup of coffee. Charlie will insist on a snack, so I will buy him a scone that he will smash all over the back seat of my car. We will get back to Henry’s school
EXACTLY on time, which is technically late as all the other parents are there. I will have to leave my unfinished coffee in the car.

Charlie will refuse to sit in his own chair and will instead spend the entire time squirming in my lap. I will start to sweat because the classroom--now filled with 14 kids and their smiling parents--will be hot. I will not be able to
take pictures because I have left the camera in the car, and even if I had it, I can’t put Charlie down without causing him to wail loudly. At some point I will realize that I have to pee.

Henry will be overwhelmed by the singing, as he is every time he has music class. He will not be able to sit still. He will get up and dance, even though there is no dancing in this program. He will sing louder than the other
children, possibly in a funny voice. He will make his friend Luke laugh, which will get them both in trouble with the music teacher, who is trying her best to be smiley and kind for the parents. He will shout out the names of songs. He will spontaneously sing his own version of at least one song on the program. The other parents will tell me how cute this is, but I will feel certain that once they are in their cars away from me they will wonder what is wrong with that kid. Or what is wrong with his mommy. I will wonder it, too.

When the singing is over, the teachers will serve a holiday-themed snack. They will invite Charlie (the only sibling in attendance, as everyone else has child care) to sit at the table and eat with the big kids. He will accept a cookie, with frosting, but refuse to sit at the table, instead rubbing the frosting all over my dry-clean-only sweater (the last clean thing in my closet). He will ask for a drink but cry when Henry’s teacher brings him a juice box because he wanted ME to get it, not the teacher. He will refuse to be put down and I will be painfully aware that he weighs 35 pounds.

I will not socialize with the other mommies, mostly because I will be too busy trying to keep Charlie from sticking his cookie down the front of my sweater but also because this is our second preschool in two years and I don’t know
anyone and frankly, I will be too hot and too stressed out to even try making small talk. They will all seem very nice and very sympathetic, and will offer to help with Charlie or to get Henry a snack, but I will be the only one with kids
who are not doing what they’ve been asked, in an orderly fashion. And the only one with frosting on her sweater.

And in that moment, I will love my sons so much my heart will ache.

I talk to new mothers all the time who tell me how they cried when their babies had that first round of immunizations. And I think, oh, no, that’s not the thing that will break your heart. Over the past five and half years, Henry has spent ten days in the NICU, had two ER-worthy injuries and dental surgery that required complete sedation. He has been diagnosed with an autistic spectrum disorder. Charlie has had stomach flue and ear infections and strep throat and a cyst on his neck that might have been any number of things but turned out to be nothing. At every one of these crises, I have been calm and collected; I have dealt with fevers and blood and vomit; I have learned about speech therapy and behavior modification and ADHD meds. I always know where my health insurance id card is. I know the shortest route from anywhere in town to the hospital; I have the pediatrician’s number memorized. In every typical catastrophe, all those parenting moments you
dread when your baby is new and fragile, I have wrapped my sons in my loving arms and protected them from the world. I have been a tower of strength.

But those music programs may well be the death of me.

The times that I love my sons the most are the moments when they are struggling the hardest to get along in the world: when they are acting up or acting out, when they are over stimulated and overtired, when they are not at
their best. But it is a difficult kind of love because there is typically no cuteness to temper the struggle, and, quite honestly, because at those moments they are not the children I expected them to be but the children they really are. But rather than the idealized love we see in the media, this is real love, the kind that makes us feel like we will--and can--do anything for our children.

I only wish I could be wearing a clean sweater while I was doing it.