The year was 1988. I was just nine years old, mesmerized by my mother’s nurturing ways, already envisioning a future where I would have children of my own. I pictured a charming nursery filled with Laura Ashley decor, lovingly arranged by a husband who resembled a young Jonathan Brandis. Back then, I never contemplated what life would be like after the initial “IneedyouIneedyouIneedyou” phase. My thoughts were consumed with bottles, burping, and the delightful scent of baby clothes. The broader perspective on parenting—raising independent individuals—was beyond my imagination.
Fast forward to Christmas break, when my husband was home for an extended period. I took pride in having a clean kitchen and vacuumed floors, mentally congratulating myself for managing it all while the kids were around. Anyone with children knows that cleaning during their presence is a daunting task. As I finally sat down, ready to dive into my new library book, one of my children would inevitably approach me with questions like, “Mom, where are my pants?” or “Can you get me some water?”
Initially, my instinct was to resist. I had just settled in, and the last thing I wanted was to jump back into parenting tasks. But then a nagging thought crossed my mind: “When I’m older, will I regret not having done these things?” After all, there’s a reason people say, “Babies don’t keep!” and “Kids grow so fast!” While it’s undeniable that these sentiments hold truth, they also push me into a frenzy of wanting to do everything for my children, fearing that tomorrow might not come.
This fear is fueled by thoughts of heart-wrenching stories: the child who lost a battle with illness at a tender age, the teenager whose life was tragically cut short, or the woman who has spent years yearning for just one child. In those moments, it feels selfish to ignore my children’s requests, making me spring into action even when I’d rather not.
I still vividly remember meeting my daughter for the first time, bathed in the cold glare of surgical lights. I caught a brief glimpse of her before she was whisked away, trapped in the sterile world of the NICU. As a new mom, all I could do was listen to the nurses as they took her from me. Finally having the chance to bring her home, despite her special needs, I embraced the opportunity to care for her wholeheartedly.
Now, nearly ten years later, I often hear her sigh when I ask her to brush her hair. “Can’t you just do it? You always do it faster!” she says in her most tween-like tone. I find myself questioning whether efficiency is truly the point. Yet, I’ve consistently given in, believing that some tasks are simply easier when I handle them: hair brushing, tooth brushing, cleaning rooms, setting tables, and even—yes—I’ve even forged her homework.
There’s a level of guilt that arises when I don’t do these things. It translates into an overwhelming fear: “What if I don’t have them tomorrow?” So, I persist. I seize those imperfect moments, whether it involves cleaning little mouths or awkwardly signing my child’s name so the teacher won’t notice.
For more insights into the challenges and joys of parenting, you might want to check out this thought-provoking article on the myths of protection. And if you’re looking for fertility solutions, consider visiting Make a Mom, where they offer reliable at-home insemination kits. For those navigating the journey of pregnancy and home insemination, Johns Hopkins Fertility Center is an excellent resource.
In summary, my motivation for doing everything for my kids stems from a blend of love, fear, and the desire to cherish every fleeting moment while they’re young. I keep pushing forward, embracing the chaos and imperfections that come with this beautiful journey of motherhood.
Leave a Reply