I have always had a love affair with books.

Blew my allowance on bookorders in elementary school. Spent dateless nights in high school curled up with a novel. Nearly got run over by a car in college when I tried to squeeze in extra reading time walking to campus.

I love to read.

While pregnant, I read my favorite children’s books by Dr. Seuss, Mo Willems, and Eric Carle to my bulging stomach. I assumed that my daughter would have the same passion for reading I have. I was wrong.

From birth, books bored — even annoyed — her. She ripped pages. She chewed corners. She’d squirm every time I’d sit her down to read one of the educational, highly-recommended books I’d bought for her. read more

Somewhere in the back of my medicine cabinet, between the Spongebob bandages and the remnant tubes of baby sunblock, there is a nail file. I’m certain I saw it there about a year ago, next to a bottle of coagulated nail polish. My nails always give me up for a mother right away. They’re usually stained with red food coloring from an exploding lava volcano experiment, or they’re covered in glue and blue glitter from a wild night of making “bead art.”

My friend Janet on the other hand, is proof that a mother can achieve both a child and an un-chipped French manicure. Janet’s nails are in a perpetual state of perfection. They send an unmistakable message that she is maintaining a respectable amount of control in the naturally chaotic environment of motherhood. As if to say to the world, “I may have peanut butter on my jeans, but look at these nails!” Or “Wha… my kid’s covered in cat litter? But have you seen these nails?” More than once, I’ve caught myself envying those hands.

I probably felt my most beautiful during the months that I was pregnant. My nails were strong, my hair was silky and full like I’d walked straight out of a Pantene commercial, and my skin glowed. Since then, it’s been a journey of too little sleep, too many meals on the run, and too little hot water left after running the dishwasher to take the long herbal soak that I would love. Don’t get me wrong…I’m not a hobo or anything. It’s just that every time I think about spending a few hours in the spa getting buffed and polished, there’s this cute little boy looking up at me asking if I want to play a game of “Rocket Ship Robot Attack.” I just can’t seem to miss out on that. Spending imaginative time with my son just seems to soothe my soul deeper than any Aegean Sea salt scrub. Two years ago, my husband gave me a coupon for a week of “me” time. It’s still sitting on top of my dresser. Hopefully the expiration date isn’t for about 12 more years.

With her perfect nails, I know that Janet has found her perfect balance. She has mastered looking after her child, as well as herself. As for me, I’ve found a perfect balance too. It lies nestled in the chaos of messy birdseed projects and “scavenger hunts” for my misplaced car keys. Sure, my nails are a mess. But have you seen my kid?

-Kelly Sopp

Kelly is the co-founder of Wry Baby and co-author of Safe Baby Handling Tips. She and her husband, David, create humorous infant apparel and gifts designed to make parenting fun.