The Big Little Years: Navigating Motherhood's Messy Middle
I'm in the Big Little Years of motherhood.
I'm in the Big Little Years of motherhood - one foot in kindergarten, one foot in tween. My boys are five years apart, so with my oldest at ten and my youngest approaching six, I've been living in the little kid phase for a decade. But I'm starting to feel the shift, that subtle transition out of these early years.
We're not drowning in diapers and spit-up anymore (though I still have baby wipes stashed in every room).
We're not yet handing over car keys with brave smiles and clenched hearts.
We're somewhere in that messy middle - where the goldfish crackers are still swimming but the questions are getting existential.
They aren't babies anymore.
They know how to raid the snack drawer and throw sass like tiny teenagers.
But they still need me - a lot.
As a therapist who specializes in helping overwhelmed moms, I spend my days supporting women through every phase of motherhood.
But living it myself? That's a whole different story. It has taught me that all the professional training in the world can't quite prepare you for the reality of being needed in ways you're not always equipped to give.
Sometimes they need whispers and cuddles.
Sometimes it's dramatic sobs over paper crafts and dinosaur injustices.
Their problems are still fixable (mostly) - a skinned knee, a lost stuffy, the unbearable tragedy of someone eating the last bowl of Lucky Charms. Problems that can mostly be solved with a hug, a silly voice, or me pretending to be Mommy Robot during the morning chaos.
These early years are… wild.
These early years are… wild. Whiplash-y. Hilarious. Infuriating. Bittersweet. Gut-punch tender.
Full of chaos, bedtime negotiations, and digging-deep, standing-tall patience.
They know things now. Like really know things.
They tell me about what happened at recess with the seriousness of a TED Talk.
They have opinions about animal statistics, the "right" kind of cheese, my choice of music - actually, pretty much everything.
And I am here for it.
I'm their witness, their safe place (and sometimes the scariest). Their first life coach with a deep love of ice cream and snacks.
F*ck - these years sneak up on you. One minute you're Googling "Will I die from sleep deprivation," the next you're wondering when they got so long-limbed and clever.
There are soccer games, Lego underfoot, school drop-offs, friend drama, and moments where I catch a glimpse of the teenager they're becoming - and it stings in the most beautiful, bittersweet, aching way.
These Big Little Years? They stretch you as a mom.
Not just your schedule, but your heart. Your identity. Your patience. They make you wonder if you're doing any of it right - and then your kid says, "You're my favorite person," and suddenly you're sobbing over a half-eaten grilled cheese. But they can also uninvite you to their birthday party (the biggest offense).
Here's what I wish someone had told me about this phase of motherhood:
They're the ones where you finally exhale a little - but then immediately hold your breath again for different reasons. Where you realize you've been white-knuckling it through the early years, and now you get to actually see who these little humans are becoming.
They're the ones where you realize it doesn't get easier. It never was easy. It's not supposed to be easy. This is serious f*cking work - the work of being a mom while raising them. Changing, shifting, altering yourself at every stage, through every new phase they enter.
In every stage there are hard bits and easier bits. Bits you miss and bits you don't remember the last time of - the last time they asked you to wash their hair or hold their hand or sing them to sleep. Those moments that feel so slow and hard, excruciating especially when your mental health is less than ideal. And yet they pass all the same, slipping through your fingers like water.
These years are where the real parenting happens. Not just keeping them alive (though, let's be honest, that's still priority one), but helping them figure out who they want to be in the world.
Parenting differently than how you were raised - and yet they know nothing of the pain of how you were raised and cannot see or appreciate the effort in that. Teaching them that they matter, their choices matter, that being a kid is still deserving of respect.
That feelings are big - and that's okay. That they might not be the best player on the team, and there will always be someone who can and will likely do something better than them, and someone who isn't as good as them. That conflict is part of life. That they have autonomy and control over their choices and reactions. And sometimes they just gotta shake it off—and that's okay too. That being human is messy and imperfect and wonderful and delightful all at once.
They're also the years where you start to remember yourself again—the woman who existed before she became "Mom." The one who had thoughts that didn't revolve around nap schedules and whether that cough sounds concerning. You catch glimpses of her in the grocery store alone, in the car singing your music, in those precious moments after bedtime when the house is finally, blissfully quiet.
And maybe - just maybe - these are the years where you stop apologizing for being you, because trying to be something you're not is exhausting. Where you model for your kids what it looks like to be a whole person, not just their everything-person. Where you learn that being a "good enough" mom is actually revolutionary in a world that demands motherhood perfection.
The Big Little Years are where you realize that raising kids isn't about having all the answers - it's about sitting with them in the questions.
About showing up imperfectly, consistently, lovingly.
I want you to remember that behind every overwhelmed mom is a woman doing her absolute best with what she has, where she is, right now.
I wasn't talking very nicely to my five-year-old one night at bedtime when my older son came up to me and said something real and deeply painful. He was holding up a mirror to my words and body language. I stopped him and said, "Why are you coming at me like that?" He postured like he was ready for a fight, so I softened my gaze and said again, "Why are you coming at me like that? Honestly, I'm curious."
He said, "Why can you talk so meanly to us and so nicely to Grammie?" (I was in the middle of giving them grief about not getting ready for bed when my mom called.) I immediately noticed what he noticed.
"Sh*t, I'm not sure. I think I was frustrated and feeling not heard by you guys... but that's not your responsibility, it's mine. And I'm sorry."
He stood down from his fight. My youngest jumped in with a funny story and we carried on with bedtime. A little while later, my youngest came up to me and said, "Mommy, I'm sorry for not listening to you earlier." And my oldest apologized for something mean he'd said to his brother earlier in the day.
I'm in the Big Little Years. The messy, miraculous middle of motherhood.
Where repair matters more than perfection, and our kids are watching how we handle our humanity.
And despite the crumbs in my bed, the exhaustion in my bones, and the constant existential questions at bedtime… There's nowhere else I'd rather be.
(Though I wouldn't say no to a cabin in the woods for a few days.)
Struggling with the identity shift of the Big Little Years? Feeling stretched between who you were and who you're becoming as a mom? As both a therapist and a mom living this phase, I get it. Sometimes we need more than blog posts - we need real support to navigate this messy, beautiful middle.
I'm a registered social worker serving mothers in Alberta, Saskatchewan, Ontario, and New Brunswick. My office is located in Leduc (just 17 minutes from Edmonton IKEA), and I work with moms throughout the Edmonton area and surrounding communities. I also offer virtual sessions across Canada.
Ready to find yourself again while raising them? Book a free 20-minute call with me.
Let's talk about what's really going on and see if working together feels like a good fit.
What are your Big Little Years teaching you? I'd love to hear from you in the comments—or better yet, over a coffee that's actually still hot.
Follow Kayla on her Instagram account @kayla.huszar
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