Parenting
It was 1988 when I was just nine years old, watching my mother as she gracefully navigated motherhood. I envisioned my own future, complete with a charming nursery adorned with Laura Ashley décor, all lovingly arranged by a husband who looked a bit like Jonathan Brandis. My thoughts were consumed with the early days of parenthood—bottles, burping, and the delightful scent of newborn clothes. Little did I realize that the journey of raising kids extends far beyond those initial moments. I failed to consider the larger picture—raising tiny humans who would eventually grow into independent adults.
This realization hit me hard during Christmas break when my husband was home for an extended holiday. After tidying up the kitchen and vacuuming the floors, I felt a surge of pride at managing these chores while the kids were around. Anyone who has tried to clean with children in the house knows it’s a challenge; it’s about cleaning while they’re right there, making it a Herculean task. Just as I settled down with a new library book, one of my kids would inevitably approach me with a request: “Mom, where’s my shirt?” or “Can you help me with my homework?”
In these moments, my first instinct is to feel overwhelmed. I think to myself, “I just sat down! Do I really have to do this?” But then I remember the wise words often shared by those who’ve been there: “Babies don’t last forever!” and “The cobwebs will always be there!” These phrases resonate deeply because I’ve witnessed the swift transformation of a newborn into a rambunctious toddler overnight. The realization that these moments are fleeting compels me to say “yes” more often than not.
I can’t help but reflect on scenarios that linger at the edges of my mind: the child who lost their battle with illness at a tender age, the teen whose life was cut short in an accident, or the woman who has spent years yearning for just one child. In light of these realities, it feels almost selfish to ignore my children’s requests when they arise.
When I first laid eyes on my daughter, it was under the glaring lights of an operating room. She was whisked away into the NICU, and all I could do was listen as the nurses wheeled her off. In that moment, I was a mother, yet I felt powerless. Once we were given the chance to bring her home—despite the special care she required—I embraced every opportunity to do things for her. I thrived on it.
Now, as she nears her tenth birthday, I find myself questioning my approach. When I ask her to brush her hair, her response is often a reluctant, “Can’t you just do it? You do it faster!” But is speed the true measure of success? I’m starting to wonder.
Despite my doubts, I repeatedly give in. Tasks like hair brushing, tooth brushing, and even cleaning her room seem quicker when I handle them myself. I’ll even admit to taking a shortcut and signing her homework for her. Yes, I just confessed to that.
I often feel the need to apologize for taking on so much, yet the guilt of not being there for my children looms large. What if I don’t have them tomorrow? So, I continue to embrace those imperfect moments, whether it’s wiping messy faces or even poorly forging a signature to save face with a teacher.
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In essence, I persist in doing everything for my kids because every moment spent together matters. Even if it means taking care of the little things I sometimes wish I could delegate, I cherish the time we have, however chaotic it may be.
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