Of all the things that await me in old age, good memory probably isn’t one of them. Family genetics suggest that I’ll lose my memory earlier than I’d prefer, and observation of adults over age 60 leads me to believe that I won’t remember much about this season of life.
So, to keep the record straight with Future Me, and perhaps any Boomers who’ve concluded my generation is mindlessly letting these precious years slip by: A letter to memorialize what it’s like to parent young children in 2022. I won’t be guilted into believing that somehow I’m missing the boat. May the following realities be ones we collectively never forget.
Never forget: Having a baby is hard.
Having a baby is everything it’s advertised to be: birth, diapers, feeding, sleep deprivation. Becoming a parent is so much more. It’s a new life, wholly tethered in mind and body to the needs of another. It’s decoding, and always adapting to, a demanding, ever-changing, tiny human. It’s the never-ending quest to solve the latest “problem” — latch, sleep schedule, too much poop, too little poop, fever, head shape, weight gain… Caring for an infant is disorienting and exhausting. And within the first few months of becoming a parent, you realize you’ve joined a secret society of people who have boundless love and superhuman strength.
ALSO never forget: The trials of caring for an infant didn’t cancel my ability to appreciate it.
Yes, there were moments when I wanted to scream, or couldn’t wait to hand off my baby to my partner. But my tired eyes and impatient complaints weren’t the whole story. No flash of exasperation could erase the hundreds of times I responded to my baby’s cries with a warm smile. No amount of brain fog could obscure my ability to appreciate the heart-bursting sound of my baby’s joyful laugh. And none of the frustration I felt diminished my capacity to relish in the delicious weight of my baby as he slept on my chest.
So don’t be fooled into believing that this monumental phase is one I somehow managed to miss. Just because this season of life passed with bewildering speed doesn’t mean the unrepeatable moments were altogether lost. They were there. Every one of them. I soaked them in, to the best of my ability, and to the degree my conditions would allow. In every moment — even the difficult ones — my effort, my presence, was 100% enough.
Never forget: Raising a toddler is a sh*t show.
Raising a toddler is like living with a drunk college roommate. Lacking in both reason and physical coordination, never — not for a moment — can a toddler be entrusted with her own safety or judgment. They’re hellbent on making bad decisions, and belligerently incapable of negotiating with logic. The most basic human acts — hand washing, putting on shoes, getting into a vehicle — are elaborate, drawn-out dramas. Stability is elusive, punctuality is warfare, rationality is rare, and the volume is almost never tolerable. An average day with a toddler is frenetic and frazzling. Just writing about it overwhelms me.
ALSO never forget: The sh*tshow of toddlerhood is also incomprehensibly precious.
Although there were days when I wanted to hide under my pillow, the pull of heartstrings kept me right at my toddler’s side. Even the most mundane actions were suffused with love and care. Snacks were lovingly packed, questions were thoughtfully answered, and accidents were patiently cleaned. I built towers, fastened shoes, and supplied the “blue bowl.” I applied band-aids to invisible injuries, and enforced “pleases” and “thank you’s.” I made birthday cakes, imbued values, hung scribbly art, and wiped away tears. I held my toddler close every time she sat still long enough to let me. I kissed her pillowy cheeks. I held her tiny hand. I read so. many. books.
No headache or annoyance could drown out the countless times my toddler made me laugh. Her innocence was everything. The cuteness was more than my heart could take. I drank it in with every fiber of my being. I knew she’d never be this little again. I knew it’d fly by in a flash. And contrary to popular belief, yes, I made the most of it. I did every damn thing I possibly could.
Never forget: Any notion of getting parenting “right” in 2022 is patently impossible.
The pressure to be a “good mom” is an unrelenting imperative. Society lays out the job description, social media inflates the standards, and together we’re conditioned to obediently fall in step. We’re suckered into believing that the contradictions embedded in our myriad choices, are actually failures of our own:
We’re told that good moms don’t over schedule their kids, but the reality is, having my children home every afternoon depletes my ability to actually be a “good mom.”
The childhood development experts say that we can’t expect good behavior from children if they’re hungry, but the nutrition experts say that we’ll create a picky eater if we give kids snacks outside of a set meal schedule. (Pick your poison: hangry public tantrum or picky eating?)
The latest research shows that caregivers should stay with a child and demonstrate self-regulation when the child is having a meltdown, rather than leaving the child to work through it on his own. But constantly taking the time to co-regulate with my very-dysregulated child necessarily means that I won’t have time to do all of the other things that I’m “supposed” to do — rotate toys, finish making that healthy meal, email photos to grandparents, or, oh yeah, work on that thing called a career.
Parenting “well” is a flailing paradox. Everything is an absurd tradeoff, and expectations are otherworldly. It’s oppressive and it’s impossible.
ALSO never forget: Being a mom is my greatest blessing in life.
No stringent standard could sap the joy of raising my children. Being a mom is by far the best and most important thing I’ve ever done. I steep in the sound of my kids’ laughter, marvel at their abilities, and delight in their discoveries. No amount of difficulty could eclipse the satisfaction I get from watching them grow.
As I tramp around in the parenting paradox, I know one thing for sure: raising children is rewarding, but it is also the definition of bittersweet. The most difficult exercise of putting forth everything I have, then egolessly letting go. The truest demonstration of impermanence, the ultimate test of nonattachment.
Between intervals of getting things “right,” and making woeful mistakes, I’ve learned to sail the cool freedom that follows my softened grasp, and savor the privilege of watching two beautiful young lives unfurl. And with each passing year, I’ve learned to more carefully tend my swollen heart: unbearably full of both love and heartache.
So as time marches on, and my memory fades, I vow not to be lured by wistful tropes. “I wish I’d done it better,” or “if only I took it in more.” They are common refrains — but they will not be mine.
I won’t let regret haunt me. I won’t be tricked into believing I missed a thing.
The preciousness of it all hasn’t escaped me. The gravity of my role hasn’t either. I’m here for it. All of it. I always have been.
Never, EVER forget that.
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