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I briefly considered making the cracker throwing a learning moment, lifting the girls out of the stroller and telling them to pick up the now-broken crackers.

But as I said, my back is perpetually sore, and I simply did not care enough.

I picked up the broken crackers myself, stuffed them into the pocket of my jacket, which has become a repository for all kinds of crumbs and other debris.

My failure to give them consequences means the girls will grow up to be spoiled, awful people, and I will be to blame.

Kyle will shake his head at me in disappointment.

Like I said, it’s always the mother’s fault.

“You’re a bad mom,” Grace said, as if reading my mind.

This had no effect on me. I’ve heard it hundreds of times.

I knew that five minutes later, she would tell me I’m the best mom ever, and that would have no effect on me either.

The whiplash has a numbing effect. The only way to manage the wildly varied emotions of small children is to have none yourself.

I rewarded the girls’ behavior by offering an assortment of other snack options, holding them out like a magician fanning a deck of cards.

Grace selected the goldfish crackers and Liv selected a graham cracker (of course), and we went on our way.

“Where are we going?” Grace asked.

Sometimes I feel like I live in an insane asylum and I’m not sure if I’m the patient or the doctor.

“To the park, remember?” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

When I first became a stay-at-home mom, I went at it full force, as I would a new ad campaign.

I was a bit manic, putting my graphic design skills to work to create a color-coded schedule for the girls.

I thought I would become That Mom, the one who has a Pinterest board and knows all the latest educational apps and sneaks spinach into smoothies.

That lasted about three days. Then I began to feel like a pent-up racehorse.

Texting with old coworkers or checking the news headlines on my phone became equivalent to my daily trot around the stable.

I miss work. I miss clear-cut productivity, the gratification of task completion. Motherhood is never complete. There are no encouraging performance reviews, no pats on the back. I miss excelling at something. I miss confidence.

Jill texted the other day to say she got promoted.

Jill is one of my good (and only) friends.

Before motherhood, I had more friends. As an introvert, I’ve always had a small social battery.

There’s only so much I can give outward before I am completely depleted.

Now, all my “give outward” energy goes to the girls; there is nothing left for anyone else, myself and Kyle included.

Jill’s friendship persisted because our work offices were next to each other and we saw each other every day.

Minimal-effort relationships are the only ones a mother can be expected to sustain.

Now that I’m home, Jill has stayed in touch via text strings that she always initiates.

We will see how long that lasts. Anyway, she’s a copywriter at the ad agency, not in competition with me, so I shouldn’t have been agitated by news of her promotion, but I was.

Jill and her husband, Matt, are childless—or child- free , as people are saying now.

Of course she got promoted. I know it’s not fair to hate her, but life is not fair, is it?

Whenever I share my sorrows with Jill, who probably gives herself pedicures while listening to me, she says, “Nic, it’s just temporary, remember?

” The work hiatus, she means. Except, is it ever really temporary for women?

A couple of years back, the agency hired a woman named Beth who was returning to the workforce now that her children were in elementary school.

She was only forty-two, but she seemed like a grandmother.

Before they could fire her, she quit. Curiosity led me to look her up on LinkedIn, to see if she found a job elsewhere, but her profile was completely gone. Poof.

It took an embarrassingly long time to update my résumé, and then I resolved to send it out to one company every day until I landed a new freelance gig.

I didn’t think it would take long. I have experience!

I have contacts! But I haven’t even landed an interview.

Nobody wants to hire a part-time mother, I guess.

There are full-time positions listed, but I can’t imagine starting somewhere new.

I would need to bring my A game for at least six months to earn respect, and the reality is that I’d be ducking out early to pick up a sick kid by week two.

“It’s tough out there,” Jill told me. Not that she would know.

After a month of nothing happening, I told Kyle, “This job search is a lot to juggle with the girls.” To which he said, simply, “Okay.” There was no pressure from him because he thought the arrangement with me home and the girls out of day care was just fine.

The finances were manageable, and we weren’t dealing with cesspool viruses.

“I’ll get back to it,” I told him. “I’m just going to take a short break. ”

I’m still on that break.

“Mommy?” Grace called from the stroller.

“Mommy?” Liv echoed.

“Yes?”

“You’re the best mommy ever,” Grace announced.

Right on cue.

When we got to the park, it was almost ten thirty, which I have come to consider “close to lunchtime.” Such optimism is a survival strategy.

There was the usual group of moms huddled together, some bouncing babies in their arms, others yelling commands at small children of various ages: “Micah, gentle hands. Gentle Hands .” There were no dads—there rarely are during the week.

The husbands come out on the weekends, likely forced by their exhausted wives.

They do not congregate. They sit on the outskirts staring at their phones.

I’ve often thought that would make a great exhibition—photos of fathers at a playground versus mothers at a playground.

I sat on a bench across the playground from the group of moms. They are Professional Moms, moms who would never put their kids in day care in order to work, moms who make leprechaun traps on Saint Patrick’s Day and buy organic-cotton onesies and never do screen time.

They are made to mother. They make me feel woefully inadequate.

Somehow, despite being harried (I assume) stay-at-home moms, they all look fit and fashionable.

At least one of them must be a social media influencer.

Most wear expensive-brand athleisure—the labels visible and making me feel like the nerd I was in high school all over again.

Some wear trendy high-waisted jeans that look to be tailor made for their bodies, accentuating tiny waists and perfectly shaped asses.

Since I became a stay-at-home mom, my daily uniform is a gray hoodie and a pair of sweatpants from Walmart.

I look like someone about to rob a liquor store.

And I have not figured out how to incorporate exercise into this new life—perhaps I should ask these Pilates-bodied women their secrets—so the fanny pack of fat I’ve had since the girls were born has grown in size.

The other day, Grace poked my stomach and asked if I was having another baby.

I gave the Professional Moms a smile that didn’t show teeth and said a silent prayer that Grace would not shout “ Penis ” at anyone.

She has become obsessed with the word and is known to incorporate it into random verbal bursts: “ Doggie Penis Poo-Poo Head !” I still have a note in my day planner to ask her pediatrician if this is some form of toddler Tourette’s.

In a rare moment of idyllic sisterhood, Grace and Liv played in the sandbox with their dolls.

There was no whining. Grace showed Liv how to rock the baby doll in her arms, and Liv watched intently, her little mouth agape in wonderment at her big sister’s wisdom.

These moments, when they are utterly delightful, are my sustenance.

“Mommy, let’s play ice cream shop!” Grace yelled, jumping up from the sandbox.

I hate playing ice cream shop. Whenever we play ice cream shop, time slows. I cannot explain this phenomenon, but it is true. Nobody tells you about the boredom of parenthood. I don’t know if withholding this information is an act of kindness or cruelty.

“Why don’t you keep playing together for a bit?”

“Noooooo,” Grace protested. “Ice cream shop!”

She came to me, grabbed my arm with a force that would be considered harassment in any other context, and tried to pull me from the bench. They really do think my body belongs to them.

“Ice cream!” Liv shouted.

I gave in. For the next twenty minutes, we played ice cream shop, which involved Grace and Liv saying “Ice cream for sale, ice cream for sale” while I crouched down to their level and pretended to be a customer.

I’m going to need knee replacements by the time I’m forty-five, which will cost a fortune. Maybe they’ll give me a two-for-one.

“Mommy, you need to order,” Grace said, stomping her foot.

One of the hardest parts of motherhood, at least for me, is the expectation to be both childlike (while playing make-believe, for example) and authoritative. I do not know how to strike this precarious balance.

“What flavors do you have?” I asked.

Grace rattled off a list of flavors, most nonsensical, like “unicorn rainbow.” I ordered chocolate and handed my invisible money to Liv, her face alight with joy at this responsibility. I could not help but pinch her cheeks and say, “You are the cutest ice-cream-shop worker there ever was.”