The Cabbage Patch Mom of the Year

I took a long, unplanned hiatus from Substack this past month—partly because of the weird medical issues I’ve had (stay tuned for more fun updates next week!), and partly because Listen To Your Mother Boulder was May 9th, and it is my busiest season of the year. It was my ten-year anniversary of producing the show, and it was such a special night. I’m going to share the story I read in this year’s show for this week’s column. But first, look at this glorious cast! We had so much fun together and every single one of them crushed it.

When I was three years old, I was selected to be “head angel” in the Christmas nativity play at our church. It was a terrible choice. I was apparently the only child who didn’t know how to sit criss-cross applesauce: In photos of this event, I alone sit with my legs sticking straight out in front of me, bright red knee socks on display for all the world to see. My performance in this production was underscored by the appearance of my very own “Gerber baby” doll playing the role of baby Jesus.

For those of you under the age of 40, The Gerber baby doll is a hard-headed vintage toy designed to look like the angelic baby on Gerber baby food jars.

I took my role as Gerber Jesus’s mother very seriously. Another photo features me standing guard after the performance. I crouched near his manger, protective hand on his belly, scowling at the lesser angels hoping for a photo. My expression was clear: I was Jesus’ mom, and I was ready to cut a bitch.

I always wanted to be a mother. While other little Gen X girls played with their Barbie dreamhouses, I mimed pregnancy by stuffing teddy bears under my Benetton sweatshirt. When the Cabbage Patch kid craze began in 1984, my parents went to great lengths to procure one—on a business trip in Bermuda, legend has it they rode through town on a moped, my mom clutching two boxes straight from the Cabbage Patch—one for me, and one for my cousin.

I cherished my red-headed Cabbage Patch doll, Diana Alina. Over the next four years, she would be joined by five siblings: Elsie Karna, Abigail Violet, Julia Elizabeth, Amy Brittany, and Natalie Noelle. Apparently after Elsie, I realized you could alter the weird old lady names they came with and modify their birth certificates by mail. Despite having six children, my maternal instincts were impressive; I cared for my litter with tenderness and efficiency. I never lost my patience and I certainly never said any bad words. I was a natural at motherhood.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered, decades later, that actually, I sucked at it. Cabbage Patch Kids, as it turns out, never lose their shoes or need to poop when it’s time to leave the house, and are always satisfied with their breakfast choices. Given my fervor for imaginary child-rearing and impeccable babysitting reputation, I had assumed I would settle into motherhood with gratitude and grace. I believe I realized the error of this assumption right around the time my oldest child began refusing naps and insisting upon wearing her underwear inside out and backwards. But there was nothing quite like the morning rush to bring out the worst in me—The Cabbage Patch Mom of the Year would have been horrified.

One fall morning, with my six- and one-year-old-daughters buckled into the minivan, I uttered the following sentence: “Oh my god, we just missed the fucking bus!” It got worse. I began to shout, choking back tears, about how I “couldn’t have any more mornings like this!” My six-year-old’s eyes were wide. This was serious.

I was fuming as we drove away from my toddler’s childcare center, and my oldest was in tears, worrying about whether she would be late for school. I snapped at her, having hit my limit, and was rewarded by the karmic misfortune of driving over a cumbersome cluster of branches in the road. The unpleasant scraping noise under the van informed me we were dragging it. Letting loose with an expletive, I sighed loudly and stomped out of the car to free the unwieldy bunch from the undercarriage.

“Shut up,” I yelled at the small dog who was yapping frantically at the crazy woman entering his territory. Yes, I was an unhinged asshole who shouted at dachshunds. Reentering the car to the soundtrack of my daughter’s crying, I realized I had to get it together. “Izzy,” I began, “you need to stop freaking out.” I had an out of body experience as I watched the words float out of my mouth. The glaring hypocrisy smacked me in the face, but it was too late to take my duplicitous words back.

As we pulled up to school, I was horrified to see the icing on the cake of my maternal failure—flocks of children streamed into the building. In their pajamas. Because it was pajama day at school. Was my child wearing pajamas? Of course not.

Sometime during this bewildering era, my brother, a therapist, introduced me to a concept from British psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott: “good enough” mothering. The theory speaks for itself, but in the early 2000s, “good enough” didn’t stand a chance against its opponent: hypervigilant attachment parenting meets frenetic overachieving room mom. “Good enough” was tantamount to failure.

That first grader is now 19, and her baby sister is in high school. I’m not sure I ever forgave myself for that morning, but I have made peace with the fact that I am not the type of mother I thought I would be. I wish I had known that undiagnosed ADHD and untreated anxiety were wreaking havoc on my system, and that my worst moments were not an indication that I wasn’t cut out to be a mom.

Despite using words like “shitchen” and “carbage” to describe my housekeeping, despite my inability to remember spirit week, braid my kids hair, or locate the correct charging cord, I was a “good enough mother.”

And in some ways, I may have even surpassed my “World’s Okayest Mom” coffee mug. The fierce love, protectiveness, and connection I experience as a mom do come naturally to me, just as I once imagined. My youngest child’s recent root canal reminded me that over the years, a handful of medical emergencies and traumas have revealed a strength and calm I didn’t think I possessed. In those hospital room moments, I have stood vigil with the ferocity of the head Angel guarding the Gerber Baby Jesus. I think even the Cabbage Patch Mom of the Year would be proud of me.

If you’ve been on the fence about joining The Pause—my creative community for midlife women—June is your moment. We’re opening the doors for one full month: no long-term commitment, no pressure, just a chance to step inside and see what it actually feels like to be here.

Here’s what you get for the month:

• Weekly co-working sessions

• Writing prompts and accountability threads to keep you moving

• Two writing circles with optional sharing in a warm, low-pressure space

• Two guest workshops included

• Access to the full resource library of past guest instructor workshops

• A private community space where women show up for each other—genuinely

The Summer Session is $39 for the full month. At the end of June, you decide what comes next. Stay, or don’t—truly no pressure either way. Whether you’re a published author, an emerging writer, a secret poet, or a journal enthusiast, there is room for you here.

Check out the Summer Session here and grab your spot before June begins. Once you sign up, you’ll be granted immediate access to the community, so if you sign up early, you get some extra time for free! 😉

Come in and look around!