I asked what his favorite part of the preschool day had been. Tears, big ones, rolled down his face and he said, so quietly that I had to lean in to hear him, “I didn’t have a favorite part. I missed story time because I did not finish my snowman.”

More tears fell. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

How do I fix what I can’t understand?

Motherhood is impossible.

After some discussion and a lot more tears, I discovered that he and a few others were asked to finish their art projects while everyone else had story time. My son prefers story time.

I started to feel my inner Crazy Mom clawing her way out.

The teacher should know that about him. It’s not like he’s going to fail preschool if he doesn’t finish the damn snowman. Why would she embarrass and upset him like that?

I managed to keep Crazy Mom inside, while Calm Mom talked to her weepy boy.

We talked about why missing story time made him sad. We talked about the teacher being in charge at school, and why we respect her even if we don’t like what she asks us to do. He nodded and said he understood.

Car now parked in our garage, he wiped his tear-stained face, hopped out and started chattering about the rest of his day. He was happy again. He was over it.

And it was my turn to cry.

Not because of the snowman, or the teacher. But because I was keenly aware that the future holds more heartache for my babies. And some of it, a lot of it maybe, won’t be such a quick fix.

Motherhood is impossible.

Why didn’t anyone tell me that? Why didn’t anyone sit me down and tell me that no matter what I do, it will feel like not enough. Or too much.

There’s an extreme Goldilocks syndrome in this business. And mothers spend their lives searching for Just Right.

How am I supposed to keep this up, oh, forever?

My children didn’t magically appear one day; there was some effort – and time – involved in their arrival. It’s not like I was unaware of the great responsibility that comes with parenthood. I had a decent idea of what the gig would entail.

And yet, I’m still a little surprised.

Nobody explained that I would frequently (daily?) feel like my heart was splattered all over the sidewalk.

I love the line from the movie Parenthood, when Tod says, “… you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car. Hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any asshole be a father.”

(For our purposes, let’s pretend he said mother instead of father.)

Tod has a point. So I think there should be some pre-work required for everyone considering motherhood.

There needs to be a Heart Test:

Step 1
Wear your heart outside of your body, attached to another living thing – a dog or cat will suffice – for one week.

Step 2
Lodge your heart securely in your throat, so that it feels like you can neither scream, nor swallow, nor cry, nor speak. Practice holding your heart in your throat for one-hour increments, three times daily (or more if you can take it) for one week.

Step 3
Allow someone else, preferably a near-stranger whom you know on a surface-level only, like a teacher or coach, to rip out your heart and throw it against a wall.

Did you make it? Don’t celebrate yet. Surviving Steps 1-3 of the Heart Test is not enough.

Next up? You have to face that heart with a smile, a hug, and wise words of comfort. You have to look that heart right in the eye and assure it that all is going to be okay. That you are going to make sure it’s all okay by arming your heart with all the tools necessary to make it in this world.

It’s not over yet, people.

After scooping up your heart and piecing it back together, you will then need to do the following:

Form coherent sentences when speaking with other adults, make meals for your loved ones, do the laundry, have a relationship with your spouse, hold down a job, fill out forms, do more laundry, drive carpools, referee play dates, maintain some sense of who you are, do more laundry, create meaningful relationships with friends and family, schedule doctor’s appointments and dental check-ups, do more laundry, and build a diorama out of a shoe box and sugar cubes.

If you can hack all of that, then can you be a mother.

If you can’t, then you’re a big, ole sissy and you don’t need to be shaping young lives.

Some days I feel like a sissy.

Because motherhood? It can be impossible.