The following essay has been written especially for Mommybloggers by our featured guest, Kristen Chase.

I never thought that I was the mothering type. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I loved kids. But so does everyone when you can return them back to their parents before all hell breaks loose. I’m not sure if it was the fear that I’d turn out like my parents, or because I thought that maybe I wasn’t cut out for what I imagined mothering would be. But either way, I had determined that my caretaking skills were put to their best use with my two rotten puppies, and I was fine.

Then I got pregnant.

I was fairly certain that I was probably going to be the most ill prepared mother. I had never ever held a newborn baby or even seen one outside of “A Baby Story,” and I was quite (and perhaps oddly) attached to my low cut jeans and high heels. But, I did what all mothers do, and I worried more about pooping on the delivery table and how to politely tell the doctor not to slice my perineum than I did about the actual mothering part.

So, when my daughter appeared in my arms, I felt a sense of accomplishment, as not only had I birthed a beautiful baby girl, but I had avoided the dreaded poop and snip. However, that’s about ALL that I had avoided. I realized all too quickly that my silly worries about enemas and shaves were the least of my concerns. Prayers to the sleep gods? Scabby Nipples? Green sludgelike Poop? Feeling older than Joan Rivers really is? No one prepared me for this.

But, as it turns out, I was wrong. It’s funny how the world has a way of enlightening you in the most mysterious of ways. See. I was a college music professor. And I soon realized that all the baby books in the world could not have prepared me better than my first college music class.

I’m pretty sure that listening to 15 presentations on “Why Rascal Flatts is the coolest band ever like because they are so rocking and like so cute and really cool” will prepare anyone for the sleepless nights with a screaming baby. In fact, I’d probably take the screaming baby because at least I can stick my boob in his mouth to get him to stop.

I hate to compare breastfeeding poop with bad writing, mainly because I don’t want to insult the poop, however, after reading some of the worst writing about “that Mozart dude” and “the coolest deaf guy who wrote songs,” I’m thinking that closely examining my daughter’s poop was nothing.

And scabby nipples are easy compared to the pain I experienced teaching voice class to a group of non-music majors. Not only do I never want to hear “Yesterday” ever again, but I’ve decided that listening to a recording of my class would be way better prep for the pain of breastfeeding than the “toughening of the nipples” rituals that some mothers endure.

But I think the worst thing is how having a child has aged me. I look back at pictures from just three years ago and I’m pretty sure I could pass for my own aunt right now. However, my rapidly wrinkling mug is no comparison to having an entire class of students tell me they have never heard of Billy Joel. Not.one.Ever.

So, I guess I was cut out for motherhood. Sure I struggled, stressed, and cried. But I have also laughed, rejoiced, and smiled more than in the past two years than in my whole entire life. However, now that I’ve taken on a new career of writing and blogging, I’m afraid to think about what the world is preparing me for as my daughter gets older. Maybe the spammers and trolls are getting me ready for the teenage years. I guess when I hear “You suck” or “I hate you,” I can tell her “Well, honey, it’s not like I haven’t heard that before.”

For more writing by Kristen, be sure to visit her at her personal blog Motherhood Uncensored and the fun Cool Mom Picks.