By: Emma Thompson
Updated: Aug. 23, 2015
Originally Published: Jan. 17, 2012
In 1988, at the age of nine, I was captivated by my mother’s nurturing spirit, envisioning a future where I would be a parent myself. I dreamt of a charming nursery, meticulously arranged by a partner who bore a resemblance to a young actor I admired. My thoughts revolved around the enchanting early stages of parenting—bottles, burping, and the sweet scent of newborn clothes—without considering the journey of raising children into self-sufficient individuals.
This realization struck me during a holiday season when my husband was home for an extended break. I would manage to tidy the kitchen and vacuum the floors, mentally congratulating myself for accomplishing this amidst the chaos of having the kids at home. It’s one thing to clean after them; it’s another to maintain order while they are actively playing and creating messes around you.
Just as I would settle down with a new book, one of my children would inevitably approach with requests like, “Mom, where are my pants?” or “Can you help me find my toothbrush?” (yes, I still brush my nine-year-old’s teeth). In those moments, my first thought is often a reluctant sigh; I just sat down and wanted a moment of peace. However, the second thought quickly follows: “When I’m older, will I regret not taking the time to help my child?” After all, I often hear the wise sayings: “Children grow up so fast!” or “The mess will always be there!”
Anyone who has witnessed a newborn morph into a rambunctious toddler appreciates the truth in these statements, which prompts an overwhelming desire to cherish every moment. It leads me to question the implications of not being present. The shadows of tragedy also linger in my mind—the child who lost their battle with illness, the teenager taken too soon, and the couple that yearned for just one child. It suddenly feels selfish to prioritize my own comfort over the needs of my children.
When I first laid eyes on my daughter, it was under bright surgical lights—a brief glimpse before she was whisked away to the NICU, where I felt powerless. Finally becoming a mom felt surreal, and all I could do was listen to the nurses as they took her away. The moment we were allowed to bring her home, despite her need for special care, I embraced every opportunity to care for her.
Now, nearly a decade later, I find myself facing a familiar dilemma. When I ask her to brush her hair, she responds with a typical sigh, “Can’t you just do it? You always do it faster!” This brings me to question whether efficiency is truly the goal. Yet, I often yield to doing things myself—brushing hair, cleaning rooms, setting the table—even completing her homework on occasion.
I sometimes feel the need to apologize for my hands-on approach, but the guilt of not stepping in translates to an anxious thought: “What if I don’t have tomorrow with them?” So, I continue to embrace these imperfect moments, even if they involve cleaning messy little faces or occasionally forging a signature to avoid the teacher’s scrutiny.
In conclusion, my dedication to my children stems from a blend of love, guilt, and the realization that time is fleeting. I aim to balance my needs with their requests, cherishing every opportunity to nurture them.
For more insights on the journey of parenthood, you can explore resources like this excellent guide on female infertility or dive into the intricacies of home insemination. Additionally, if you are looking for authoritative information, check out this comprehensive couple’s fertility journey.