It’s funny how the phrases I once heard from my mother now echo in my own voice. The same directives that seemed tedious as a child now roll off my tongue with alarming regularity: “Chew with your mouth closed.” “Don’t pick at your teeth.” “Napkins belong on laps.” “It’s ‘most fun,’ not ‘funnest.’” “Make your bed.” “Clean your room.”
Those reminders that I once found so irksome have become my own burdensome mantras. As a kid, I viewed them as personal criticisms, a constant evaluation of my behavior that felt intrusive. The slightest correction on my manners or language usage felt like a personal affront, and it stung. Yet, looking back, I recognize that those lessons instilled in me some valuable skills, like polite dining etiquette and a solid grasp of the English language—thanks, in part, to the countless hours my mother insisted I spend reading when I complained of boredom.
As parents, we’re like living audiobooks of “How to Be a Decent Human Being.” Sure, some of us may have a few chapters missing or pages torn out, but it’s our job to steer our kids toward becoming responsible adults.
I always thought my mom was a tad too meticulous, constantly correcting me for the smallest mistakes. But once I became a parent myself, my perspective shifted. Being the eldest of eight, I now see how my mother’s attention to my upbringing didn’t extend quite the same way to my younger siblings. My youngest brother certainly doesn’t face the same scrutiny I did. I recall family dinners filled with lessons on proper cutlery usage, while my youngest would casually lick his plate clean, and I found it endearing rather than offensive.
My first two children, raised under my watchful eye, have tidy rooms. They put their dirty clothes in the hamper and generally make their beds. You’d think that such behavior would naturally inspire the younger two to follow suit, but you’d be mistaken.
My 12-year-old son and 18-year-old daughter are wonderful kids—easygoing, supportive, and filled with humor—but their rooms resemble disaster zones. My son isn’t lacking in intelligence; he’s just advanced to seventh grade, so he must be doing something right. And my daughter? Oh, the mess she creates! Instead of doing laundry, she spreads her dirty clothes across her floor, perhaps believing they’re “airing out” for future wear. Meanwhile, piles of jeans and T-shirts form in corners, reminiscent of a compost heap—but whether she’s stirring them is anyone’s guess.
She’s not lazy, though. This school year, she juggled three jobs alongside a full schedule of honors and AP classes, proving her capability when she chooses to be. But how do I explain the empty water bottles littering her desk and the overflowing trash can filled with crumpled papers and snack wrappers?
I’ve spent countless hours urging them to tidy up: “Make your bed.” “Take out the trash.” “Put your clean laundry away.” But these requests don’t seem to register as character critiques in their minds. A clean room isn’t at the top of their priority list.
Over time, I have grappled with how crucial cleanliness should be for me as well. In the grand scheme of life, does an organized desk really matter? I’ve learned that I’d prefer my kids practicing their saxophone instead of making their beds. However, I draw the line at teaching them to chew with their mouths open.
This realization hit me hard on Sunday night when I returned home after dropping my daughter off at college. The days leading up to her departure were filled with a chaotic mix of clothes strewn everywhere, two large suitcases waiting to be filled, and piles of Target bags spilling into the den.
The last time I saw her room, late Saturday night, it was a flurry of half-packed bags, with her turquoise Vera Bradley bag holding last-minute items. A few stray items remained, but I noticed the usual mess—clothes scattered and her bed unmade. As I kissed her goodnight, I reminded her, “Please try to leave your room clean.”
Despite the emotional whirlwind she was experiencing, I couldn’t resist the urge to nag.
After a relatively smooth drive to her college, we tackled the obligatory shopping trips for last-minute items, including throw pillows and power strips, before finally setting up her dorm room. It was bittersweet, filled with excitement and sadness.
Upon returning home, I headed upstairs, only to find myself drawn to her room. As I opened the door, I was taken aback. All those years of pleading for her to clean her room had finally resulted in a picture-perfect space. The bed was made, pillows neatly arranged, and everything was in order—no clothes or clutter in sight.
Yet, the vibrant energy that once filled the room was now absent, relocated 263 miles away. I now had the tidy room I so desperately desired, but at what cost?
Good luck to her new roommates; they’ll need it with my daughter!
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In summary, parenting is a journey filled with contradictions. We strive for cleanliness and order, yet we cherish the messiness of life. Ultimately, it’s the love and growth that matter most.
Keyphrase: The Cost of Parenting
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