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Motherhood is constant work — and the rules are always being rewritten

Mothering is a continual history, one that is constantly being written as the work of affirming and sustaining life continues.

I have been a mother for 18 years. I am past the time when my children needed everything from me, when caring for them subsumed all my time and energy. I look at them now, thoughtful and kind, gentle and funny, and think, I made you. They are entirely themselves; they are their own people.

But I did make them, not only in my body, but with my constant attention and thought, my endless acts of tending that let them know “I am here, I am yours.”

I’ve had a lot of privileges in motherhood

I know how privileged I am to have had the material resources, home safety, and support of friends and family to provide for my children and me. I’ve never experienced the fear of wondering how I was going to feed, clothe, and shelter us. I’ve been able to mother without having to give up my career and surrender my ambitions.

When I became pregnant for the first time, I had the right to choose whether to continue my pregnancy. After I made the choice to become a mother, my health needs and those of my potential child were met by the UK’s National Health Service. I gave birth to my eldest son in the safety of a hospital with the help of informed and experienced midwives. My second son was born at home after a terrifyingly fast and risky labor, but he and I were cared for in an NHS maternity ward for the first 10 days of his life.

All the rights and privileges of my motherhood have been granted to me by the maternal activists, reformers, and change-makers who fought over the centuries for mothers of all kinds to be recognized and respected as people. But these hard‑won cornerstones of liberated mothering are, today, precarious. And for too many mothers, they remain out of reach.

Mothers are resilient

The future, for millions of people who mother, feels horribly uncertain. But the history of motherhood teaches us that this is by no means the first time that patriarchal systems of power have colluded to control mothers’ bodies, lives, and rights. Women have mothered through every past attempt to govern who gets to be a mother. The patriarchy has long insisted that bearing and raising children exempts women from knowledge creation, social inclusion, and political participation. But mothering has always compelled women to contribute to and transform their societies.

The resilience and ingenuity of people who mothered in resistance, against adversity has inspired some of history’s most significant political movements. And the breadth of thought that has sprung from the experiences of bearing, birthing, and caregiving has enriched culture in immeasurable ways.

I feel so grateful to be a mother at a time when what it feels like and means to do the work of mothering, in all its diversity, has been brought so meaningfully into the cultural conversation. My own identity as a mother and my relationship to mothering have been molded by the thought, art, and activism of the many writers and artists who, over the last 50 years, have made motherhood a subject of serious inquiry and a source of incredible creativity.

Many extraordinary writers have illuminated the personal meanings and political significances of mothering and maternity. They have challenged the oppressions and suppressions of mothering and maternal knowledge. They attested to the diversity of maternal experience and revealed that the personal experience of being a mother can be inherently and powerfully political. And they showed how mothering holds within it everything that makes us human — fear and persistence, uncertainty and longing, strength and vulnerability, and love.

There is no end to the history of mothering

The patriarchy might try to repeat its history, but mothers always have and always will rewrite it. Across our mothering history — the resilient, collaborative, tender, and powerful history of caring for children, ourselves, our communities, and our societies — we have weathered such storms before. Mothers have ensured their stories and experiences would not be erased. Since antiquity, midwives and maternity caregivers have fought for birthing people and mothers to be believed, trusted, supported, and respected.

Thanks to Mary Wollstonecraft, Francis Ellen Watkins Harper, Sojourner Truth, Johnnie Tillmon, and many others, motherhood has been at the very heart of political and social change. Every person who has ever mothered or been mothered understands that the work of mothering is the work of living.

There is no end to the history of mothering. Every person who mothers is carrying this history with them, as they forge through the uncertainty, holding hope in the hands that hold us all together.

Mothers make history. And as mothers continue this history, their mothering will make the world.

Adapted from “A Woman’s Work: Reclaiming the Radical History of Mothering” by Elinor Cleghorn. Copyright 2026 by Elinor Cleghorn. Published by Dutton, an imprint of Penguin Random House.




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I thought I’d nailed motherhood. Then baby number 2 arrived

When I was a mom of one, I nailed motherhood. I was calm and patient; my child was well-dressed; the car was pristine; the chores were completed; and there was very little shouting. But as a mom of two, I just can’t parent to the same standards. Everything is messier, louder, more rushed, less organized, and good enough, just has to be enough.

Going from one child to two has, without a doubt, been one of, if not the hardest, adjustments of my entire life. One plus one does not equal two in this scenario. As a mom to a 1.5-year-old, a 3.5-year-old, a 16-year-old stepson, and two needy cats, it sometimes feels like I care for a dozen creatures.

I thought I was prepared

When I was pregnant with my second, I wasn’t naive. I didn’t think two would be easy. From the moment I brought my second home from the hospital, and he met my first with a cry that brought my first to tears as well, it has been a pinball game of crying, clinging, grabbing, and fighting.

Each child seemingly has a different, urgent need that requires individual attention and the patience of someone who has had a full night’s sleep. They both want “mommy!” all the time, especially when the other wants me.


Mom with two toddlers

The author says her two kids are always needing her.

Courtesy of the author



Most days, I’ll be lucky to have a sip of water and finger brush my hair into a ponytail before the madness ensues. Once spotted, I’m bum-rushed as they joust for a prime spot on my lap or in my arms. Even with one on each leg with my legs spread as wide as they possibly can, they are still fighting over me, while likely trying to bat each other away. At 40 and 30 pounds each, holding both for more than a moment is back-breaking.

Why is parenting 2 kids so hard?

Countless times since becoming a parent of two, I’ve wondered why I’m not better at this. I’ve always excelled at what I put my energy toward, but this has absolutely shattered me. Most of the time, I’m able to rescue myself from the rabbit hole of feeling like a failure by reminding myself that it feels hard because it IS hard.

Adding a child when you already have one changes every dynamic in your life, including your relationship with your first child, and adds a whole new dynamic: your children’s relationship with each other.

Corners are cut, patience and sleep are limited, and the breaks you used to have when your partner had the other child no longer exist. Oh, did I forget to mention my partner? There’s hardly any time for him. That relationship, the one that is most important in keeping everything afloat, is tested to the absolute limits.

I’m finding joy in the chaos

As I write this, both kids are at day care. It’s my one day a week without them (if they haven’t contracted the latest day care bug), and I’m surrounded by chaos.

There’s a tent in front of me and a play mop on top of what was once our living room table, now a receptacle for apple cores, half-eaten bananas, board books, sippy cups, tissues (some used), and a rotating selection of kitchen utensils.

Amid all the clutter, I see the literal and figurative crumb trails my boys have left: crackers and playdough ground into the carpet, a red fire engine toy on the armchair of the sofa, a wooden spoon deposited in boots as one exited the front door that morning.

Despite the messy, loud, hectic life I now have, I can’t wait to pick them up from day care, even though I know it will be pandemonium from the moment they see me.




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