After becoming a mom of two, I realized my son’s after-school clinginess wasn’t really about “more time.” It was about connection, and my own need for rest. This is how I’m learning to balance presence, energy, and the pull between doing and being.

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There’s a particular kind of guilt that hits when my son says, “I miss you,” and I feel like I’ve been with him all day.

Most mornings, we cuddle on the couch. I ask about his dreams. We sing made-up songs, eat breakfast face-to-face. By the time I pick him up from school, I’ve already spent the day caring for the baby, feeding, rocking, changing, and holding. I try to pour what’s left into him: snacks, the park, maybe a project. And still, by late afternoon, he melts, clings, and begs for more.

It feels like nothing is ever enough.

Since becoming a mom of two (5-year-old and a 4-month-old), I’ve been learning what balance actually means. I don’t have it all figured out. Some days I’m proud of how I handle things. Other days, I spiral into the “I suck” thoughts. The “am I ruining his childhood?” moments. Then I catch myself, take a few deep breaths, and remember: I am human. Just like this is a transition for him, it’s a transition for me too.

Theo has always had me. But the way he needs me now feels different. I’m still finding how to meet that need while honoring my own limits.

By morning, I can connect easily. My energy is open. I have space for cuddles, stories, and questions. But by late afternoon, after nursing, soothing, and constant touch, my body is spent. I’m touched out. My capacity drops. That’s when I start to tense when he climbs onto my lap or asks to be held again. It’s not rejection, it’s depletion.

And that’s where the guilt hits hardest.

I watch his dad come home from work and sink right into play with him. Their laughter fills the house. It makes me happy. It also stings. I wonder, why can’t I do that?

Part of it is energy. Part of it is old wiring.

The productive part of me, the one I’ve come to know through IFS, always wants to be doing something. I thought arts and crafts, cooking, or structured activities meant connection. But I’m learning it’s not the same.

Playground time doesn’t count as connection.
Homework time doesn’t count.
Even crafts don’t automatically count.

Those are activities.
Connection is presence.

Presence is when:

• I am still.
• My attention is on him, not the task.
• There’s no instruction.
• Nothing is being produced.
• I’m simply with him.

I didn’t grow up with that kind of presence. My childhood connection looked like helping in the kitchen, being competent, staying out of the way, and keeping myself occupied. I learned that value comes from doing, not from being. So when my son wants to just sit with me, or be close without a plan, my body sometimes wants to run. My mind starts scanning for a way to make it productive. Not because I don’t love him or don’t want to spend time with him, but because I was never taught how to rest in closeness.

And quite honestly, while I’ve been frustrated and sad and guilty about his recent behavior, it forced me to see myself differently, but not at first.

The truth is, children are pure in the way they show up. They don’t fuss for no reason. They haven’t learned to bury emotions the way adults have. Their behavior is communication. The question is, can I slow down enough to be curious about what he’s really trying to say?

Sometimes that means reading about child development, watching a talk, or journaling about my own triggers. It’s not about fixing him. It’s about shifting how I show up. Because there’s usually nothing “wrong” with the child, it’s how we respond that matters. My job is to help him learn how to regulate his emotions, because I’m not just raising a child. I’m raising a future adult.

And to do that, I have to keep re-parenting myself too. (Guess I’m a mom of three)

So now, what helps him most isn’t more time, more activities, or more energy from me. It’s one short, consistent anchoring moment of real presence.

For us, that looks like:

• When we get home from school
• We sit on the couch
• I put one hand on his back
• We breathe and exist together for 5 to 10 minutes
• No toys. No teaching. No correction.

This is our “Theo Time.”

After that, I can shower, reset, and he’s calmer. The clinginess fades. Bedtime is smoother. Not because I did more, but because his nervous system got what it needed: predictability, presence, a moment that says, “You still have me.”

And mine gets something too: space to breathe before I give again.

I’m realizing I have to be intentional about my own energy if I want to offer presence at all. Mom burnout is real. My nervous system needs recovery just as much as his.

So lately I’ve been experimenting with small, realistic ways to recharge:

• Ten minutes of quiet after I put the baby down, no phone, no noise.
• Standing outside barefoot, feeling the air on my skin.
• A shower that’s just for me, not timed around the next cry.
• Letting myself ask my fiancée for help before I hit the wall.
• Reminding myself that rest is not earned.

These moments don’t fix everything, but they give me back enough capacity to show up again with softness.

I’m not trying to be a perfect mom. We’re both learning what enough really feels like.
One minute at a time.