As the final college acceptance letters arrive, I find myself grappling with emotions I never fully anticipated. While I thought I was ready for the bittersweet mix of loss and relief as my daughter prepares to leave home, the reality of this transitional period is proving to be more challenging. For her, college signifies a new beginning; for me, it feels like a closing chapter. Each time she opens an acceptance letter, it’s like I hear the sound of packing tape sealing away her childhood, making it a fixed memory ready for review.
Like any parent, I have my share of regrets. Recently, I’ve been navigating a landscape filled with these feelings, which vary from the trivial—like not making stained glass art with crayon shavings—to the more impactful, such as moving during her high school years. That transition was as smooth as switching dentists mid-procedure.
When my daughter struggles to concentrate, I find myself questioning my decisions, from allowing excessive screen time to giving her a cell phone too early. I pondered implementing chores and allowances but never followed through. If she forgets to empty the dishwasher or spends money impulsively, I internalize that blame. Her long showers now make me worry that I failed to teach her the importance of responsibility.
There were fleeting moments when she might have been open to learning new skills or exploring interests, and I feel I missed those opportunities. I introduced her to books at inopportune times—like suggesting Catcher in the Rye before she was ready for Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I enrolled her in sailing lessons when she had already outgrown the age for them, resulting in frequent bumps from the boom. If only I had shared my love for the Rolling Stones with her earlier, perhaps she would appreciate their music instead of dismissing it.
I’ve turned out to be a different parent than I envisioned. I thought I would read to my children more, but I often found myself too tired. My attempts at crafts were limited to gluing macaroni to construction paper. I imagined being a fun parent like my relatives, who created elaborate Easter egg hunts that continued even after their children grew up. Yet, I never decorated eggs with my kids due to my dislike for the vinegar smell and the mess it created. One year, we didn’t even bother with a Christmas tree.
I’ve never identified as a Tiger Mother, and now I ponder if that’s why some parents push their children so hard, exposing them to every conceivable activity. Is their motivation genuine concern for development, or is it fear of facing regrets like mine? Do piano lessons and sports serve as emotional insurance against future dissatisfaction? Why do we conceptualize childhood as a distinct phase when our parents never did? For them, it was simply a matter of growing up.
I yearn for a way to apply the lessons I’ve learned in parenting, wishing for do-overs—without the chaos of diapers and tantrums. I’ve considered fostering or adopting, even though I know I’m too exhausted, my husband isn’t interested, and it’s unlikely I’ll act on it. When my 15-year-old son asked why I would want another child now, I impulsively responded, “Because I’m finally ready to be a parent.”
Who am I kidding? To be a different kind of parent would require me to be a different kind of person. I struggle to manage my time effectively, let alone maintain charts or calendars. I’m not the type to micromanage; camping and skiing sound overwhelming to me, and sitting outdoors in the cold for soccer practice? I’d rather have that time to myself.
Perhaps “regret” isn’t the right term for my feelings. Regret usually stems from negative outcomes, and despite my parenting style—which could be described as benevolent neglect—my daughter has emerged as a remarkable individual. She works hard, volunteers her time, and brings joy with her quick wit. So what if she never took center stage in school plays or earned trophies? Her bookshelf may be filled with books rather than accolades, but she’s far cooler than any ideal child I could have imagined, even if I never taught her how to sew (a skill I lack). At least I taught her the trick of rolling a lemon for more juice.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, a mother grapples with the emotional complexities of parenting regrets as her daughter prepares to leave for college. The author acknowledges both trivial and significant regrets, from missed opportunities in introducing skills and interests to the challenges of parenting style. Despite these feelings, she recognizes her daughter’s strengths and individuality, illustrating the balance between expectations and reality in parenting.