I met a group of moms at the park recently, all of us orbiting the swings, snatching moments of conversation while wielding our snack cups and shouting the occasional ‘whee!’ or ‘wow, so brave!’

One mom was wearing her newborn, trying to negotiate with her outraged two-year-old. She was having a moment, and another woman took a chance to reassure her: “Just because you lose your temper sometimes doesn’t mean you’re a bad mom.”

There was an immediate softening in the circle. Heads nodded. Shoulders dropped. It’s something we all know, technically—but still need to hear out loud.

Modern motherhood comes with an overwhelming amount of information. We are surrounded by guidance, scripts, frameworks, and philosophies about how to do it “right.” We know we’re supposed to stay calm. We know to validate feelings. We know to offer choices, to connect before we correct, to model regulation.

And yet, there are moments—many moments—when knowing what to do and being able to do it are two very different things.

The seed for my children’s book, The Grumpy Wumpus was planted when my oldest daughter was about two years old. It felt like it happened overnight. My sweet, easy baby transformed into a creature I didn’t quite recognize—stomping, screaming, thrashing, dissolving over things that felt impossibly small.

The seams in her socks were not perfectly aligned. Her cup was the wrong color. I turned off the light when she had wanted to do it herself. Anything could trigger it. Everything did.

I did what many of us do: I researched. I absorbed. I tried to implement the “right” responses. I offered choices so she would feel empowered. “These are not my choices!” she screamed. I would take a deep breath. Sit still at her eye level with a hand on my chest. Stay calm. Model regulation.

“Stop breathing!” she’d shout, enraged.

And somewhere in the midst of all of that—the effort, the disconnect, the feeling of being both deeply informed and completely at a loss—the idea for the Wumpus began to take shape.

In our house, we started using the phrase almost jokingly at first. “You’re being a Wumpus.” “I’m having a Wumpus moment.”

It became a kind of shorthand for those times when feelings get too big to hold. When they take over completely. When part of you might want to shift, to calm down, to move on—but you simply can’t.

Importantly, the Wumpus wasn’t just for my daughter. I’ve had my own Wumpus seasons. After my second child was born, I moved through a stretch of postpartum depression that left me feeling far from the version of myself I wanted to be. Later, I spent much of 2025 in treatment for stage three rectal cancer, navigating exhaustion, fear, and the strange disorientation of trying to parent young children while my own body was under siege.

There were long stretches where I was, without question, a “Mommy Wumpus.” And that, I think, is where something shifted, because the goal was never to eliminate the Wumpus. It was to notice it. To name it. To make space for it without letting it define everything.

There is no shortage of information about what good motherhood looks like. If anything, the problem is the opposite. We don’t have a knowledge gap—we have a capacity gap. Doing this work day in and day out, under conditions of sleep deprivation and emotional intensity and competing demands, is simply hard.

And when we inevitably fall short of the imagined Ideal Mother—the one who is endlessly patient, perfectly regulated, and always able to respond with grace—we can feel like we’ve failed. But motherhood is not a solo performance. It’s a relationship. It requires another person—often a very small, very unpredictable person—who has not read the same parenting books or watched the same Instagram reels. You can show up with the most thoughtful, connected script in the world, and it still might not land.

The Wumpus offered us something different.

Not a script. Not a strategy. A lens.

Instead of trying to fix or override the moment, we could name what was happening.

“The Wumpus is here.”

And somehow, that small shift created just enough distance for both of us. For my daughter, it gave language to an experience that felt overwhelming and hard to articulate. For me, it softened the edge of frustration and replaced it with a kind of recognition. Oh. This again. Noticing and naming turned out to be more powerful, in many moments, than any perfectly executed technique.

The Wumpus books grew from that place. They don’t offer solutions or step-by-step guidance. They don’t promise to prevent meltdowns or transform behavior. They simply create space—for kids and for grown-ups—to see what’s happening with a little more clarity and a little less judgment.

The idea has taken on a life of its own. Children recognize it immediately. One parent told me their child, after a difficult travel day, said matter-of-factly, “I was being a Wumpus at the airport.” Another shared that their three-year-old has started asking her baby brother, “Are you being a grumpy Wumpus?” with genuine curiosity, not criticism.

The language travels.

As a lifelong maker (and, admittedly, a serial hobbyist), I’ve also found myself bringing the Wumpus into the physical world. What began as watercolor sketches—“What color is your Wumpus today?”—has expanded into needle-felted creatures, small clay figures, and even quick playdough versions made alongside my kids at the kitchen table. Each one is slightly different. Each one carries its own expression. And somehow, that variability feels important, because there isn’t just one kind of Wumpus.

There are grumpy Wumpuses and overwhelmed Wumpuses. Shy, tiny Wumpuses and wild, exuberant ones. There are child Wumpuses and adult Wumpuses, and entire households occasionally overtaken by Wumpus energy.

And maybe that’s the point.

Not that we can eliminate these moments—but that we can hold them more lightly. Back at the park, the conversation among those mothers stayed with me.

“Just because you lose your temper sometimes doesn’t mean you’re a bad mom.” It’s simple, obvious. It’s also incredibly hard to believe in the moment when you’re standing in the middle of it. But maybe we don’t need more information; maybe we need more language that allows us to stay connected—to our kids and to ourselves—even when things feel messy.

Some days, we are calm and patient and deeply attuned. And some days, we are Wumpuses.

Both can be true.   

Julia Shaw is the author of The Grumpy Wumpus, a gentle story about big feelings for little ones, and for the grown-ups beside them. You can find the book on Amazon, and connect with her online @TheWumpusLady.