Before I embraced the role of a parent, I often heard from various sources—friends, relatives, and even strangers in the grocery line—that the love for one’s children was unparalleled. “Cradling your newborn is an extraordinary experience,” they assured me with a twinkle in their eyes.
However, I was taken aback when I first held my son, feeling an overwhelming surge of anxiety rather than the expected love. My thoughts spiraled with worries: Would I accidentally drop him? Am I equipped to guide him through life? Had we picked the right name? In that moment, I questioned my ability to raise a child.
That initial fear compounded my insecurities. If I was scared, did that mean I was failing as a parent? Where was the promised love? Surely, something was wrong with me.
The love didn’t overshadow the fear until a few weeks later during a particularly challenging night. My son was crying uncontrollably at 2 AM, and after exhausting every possible comfort, I broke down. “Please,” I pleaded, “I’m trying my best, just stop crying.” To my surprise, he quieted down. The absurdity of the situation struck me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. In that moment, I realized he was just as confused as I was, and my fear began to fade.
Reflecting on this experience, I encountered another well-meaning relative who claimed that these early years were the “golden days.” “You’ll miss them when they’re gone,” she said wistfully. While my days are filled with meaning, challenges, and the inevitable messiness of parenting, I hesitate to label them as the happiest times of my life. Acknowledging this reluctance makes me fear that I am failing somehow. Am I doing this wrong because I don’t find joy in scrubbing the carpet after a potty training accident?
Countless parenting guides assure us that any issue can be resolved with the right approach. If your child bites or refuses to cooperate, it’s merely a matter of applying the right amount of firmness or patience, along with some recommended products available for purchase. The underlying message is clear: if you’re not happy, it’s your fault.
I propose the elimination of the term “happy” from the parenting lexicon. The notion that perfect bliss is the ultimate goal of raising children is misleading. Life is inherently messy and complex; sometimes, situations don’t improve. Our self-help culture suggests that all problems can be resolved. However, when a toddler doesn’t grasp that they shouldn’t continue making a mess, no amount of advice can remedy that.
No parent who has ever found themselves on the floor, overwhelmed by a crying child, is broken. No mother who has looked at her child in sheer panic needs fixing. Wishing to escape the sticky, chaotic environment of family life doesn’t equate to failure. Rather than relying on books that promise improvement, I believe we need resources that teach acceptance of our reality, embracing the fear, joy, frustration, and anxiety that come with it.
Because I’m finished with the pursuit of happiness.
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In summary, embracing the complexities and messiness of parenting is essential. The journey is not always filled with joy, and that’s perfectly okay. It’s about acceptance rather than striving for an unrealistic ideal of happiness.