I spent 32 years taking my mom for granted. Then I had kids, and suddenly I couldn't stop thinking about her at 3am while warming a bottle.
There are a thousand articles about how becoming a dad changes your relationship with your father. The dad-to-dad connection clicks into place like a car seat base — satisfying, obvious. But nobody talks about what happens with your mom. And honestly? That one hit me harder.
It was 3:14am during my first kid's newborn phase. I was pacing the living room with a screaming baby, running on 90 minutes of sleep in 17-minute chunks, and I had this sudden, crystal-clear thought:
My mom did this. For me. For years.
Not in some abstract way. I felt it in my bones. The specific exhaustion of the 3am feed. The loneliness of being the only person awake in a dark house. The quiet panic of "is something wrong or is this normal?"
My mom did all of that. And I never once thanked her for it — not in a way that understood what I was thanking her for.
I called her the next day. She answered on the first ring — moms always answer on the first ring — and I said, "Mom, I just wanted to say… I get it now."
She didn't ask what I meant. She just said, "I know, mijo. I know."
That's the thing about moms. They've been waiting for you to figure it out.
Before kids, I thought my mom was just anxious by nature. She'd call if I didn't text back within 3 hours. She'd ask if I was eating enough every single time we talked. I found it mildly annoying. Sometimes I rolled my eyes.
Then I had kids, and now I understand: the worry is not a personality trait. It's a permanent operating system update that installs the moment you become a parent and cannot be uninstalled. I check my kids' breathing when they sleep. I mentally calculate worst-case scenarios for every playground trip. My mom has been running this OS for 32 years. And I had the audacity to be annoyed when she asked if I'd eaten lunch.
My mom has been running the parent-worry operating system for 32 years. And I had the audacity to be annoyed when she asked if I'd eaten lunch.
You know how every time you visit your mom, she tries to feed you? Even if you just ate? Even if you're literally walking out the door and she's wrapping something in foil and shoving it into your hands?
I used to find this excessive. Now I am this. My kids are 7, 4, and 2. I carry granola bars in my jacket pockets. There are emergency fruit pouches in my glove compartment. I have asked my children if they're hungry approximately 847,000 times in the last seven years.
The food thing isn't about food. It's about love in a form you can physically hand to someone. My mom wasn't force-feeding me tamales because she thought I was incapable of feeding myself. She was saying "I love you" in the only language that felt adequate — making sure you're fed.
All moms are intense. But if you grew up with a Mexican mom, there's a multiplier effect. The love is louder. The worry is more dramatic. The food is better and also more mandatory.
When my first kid was born, my mom showed up with a cooler full of caldo de pollo, three Tupperwares of arroz, and homemade tortillas that could feed a small army. She stayed six hours, reorganized my kitchen without asking, and told my wife the baby wasn't bundled enough. At the time, I was annoyed — new dad, territorial, trying to prove I could handle it.
Now I understand she wasn't criticizing. She was loving in the only way she knew how — by showing up, feeding, fixing, fussing. That's the Mexican mom love language. It's a full-contact sport. And that cooler of caldo saved us for three days when we were too exhausted to cook. She knew what we needed before we knew we needed it.
Something weird happens when you become a dad: your mom starts treating you differently. You're not just her son anymore — you're a fellow parent. She tells me stories about my childhood she never told before — the hard ones, the times she didn't know what to do and just guessed. She admits she was making it up as she went along, same as I am now. That's the gift: you finally get to know your mom as a person, not just as Mom.
There's no way to repay your mom for what she did. That's not how it works. The repayment isn't backward — it's forward. You pay it to your own kids. And one day, if you're lucky, they'll call you at 3am and say "I get it now." And you'll say "I know, mijo. I know."
I call my mom more — not out of guilt, out of genuinely wanting to talk. I let her fuss over my kids without getting defensive. When she tells me the baby looks cold, I grab a blanket. When she brings food we didn't ask for, I say thank you. When she reorganizes a drawer, I let it go. She's not undermining me. She's loving me the only way she knows how.
And I've stopped rolling my eyes at the worry. Because now I know: the worry is proof of love.
Becoming a dad made me a better son — not because I got more virtuous, because I finally understood. The exhaustion, the sacrifice, the constant low-grade terror that something might happen to your kid. My mom did all of that for me for 32 years and counting.
If you're a new dad and your mom is still around, call her. Not on Mother's Day. Today. Tell her you get it now. She's been waiting to hear it.
And if she's not — I'm sorry. But she knew. Moms know. They know you'd figure it out eventually. They know because they were you once — tired, overwhelmed, loving so hard it scared them.
— Ivan, tired Mexican-American dad of three, currently wondering if my mom is going to read this and call me immediately to ask if I've eaten today. (The answer is yes, Mom. I had a sandwich. It was fine. I love you.)