I strive to be a tranquil parent. I genuinely make an effort. I wake up before my adorable kids are even awake. I meditate. Most mornings, I gulp down a glass of lukewarm lemon water that’s supposedly good for my gut flora or whatever. I take deep breaths, glance at my to-do list, and think, “Today, I won’t yell at those little humans. I won’t tell them to hurry up or to get their heads out of the clouds. I’ll be a patient, loving mother. I’ve got this.”
And then, my kids wake up.
Instantly, I’m enchanted by their sleepy faces and warm bodies; I feel like biting their chubby cheeks. They look so adorable with their messy hair and unique morning smells. They snuggle into me, and I wish they could stay small forever and always love me the most. I recognize that parenting is a beautiful, magical experience.
Then comes the chaos of getting ready for the day.
They start whining and complaining. They can’t decide what they want for breakfast. Their favorite clothes are mysteriously unavailable. Every snack we have is suddenly disgusting. Any lunch ideas I propose are met with dramatic outbursts. The act of combing their hair, something I’ve done every day of their lives, astonishes them anew. They stand there, seemingly in a trance, staring blankly. All their shoes have mysteriously vanished overnight. They can’t communicate without growling at each other like wild animals. The bus will arrive in five minutes, yet it takes them seven minutes just to put on their shoes. Homework has vanished, toothbrushes are MIA, and the prized rock they need for show-and-tell has disappeared too. It feels like all hope is lost. I know being a parent can also be a harrowing experience.
Suddenly, I am no longer the Zen-like mother I envisioned when they were still asleep. In fact, I can hardly recognize that woman or what she was on. I’m not loving, kind, or patient anymore. I’m not meditating or staying present. I’m not calm or focused on my kids’ feelings or their precious little rocks. I just want them to move faster than a sloth crawling through molasses. I’m consumed by my selfish desire for a hot cup of coffee before work. If they miss the bus, my whole morning is ruined. And with those thoughts swirling in my mind, I turn into the mother shouting, “OMG! Hurry up!” It’s that level of madness that finally gets them moving. My frantic energy becomes my secret weapon for getting my kids to do what they need to do—eventually.
I admire all you calm, peaceful moms who manage to get everywhere on time—those who never yell, who don’t mutter, “I’ve raised human snails,” or display their crazy before stepping out the door. The moms who don’t ever shout “Hurry up!” yet still arrive on schedule—I don’t quite understand you, but I hold you in high regard.
To the rest of you: the moms who experiment with various parenting styles and find themselves still running late. The ones who drop a few curse words before breakfast. The moms who love their kids more than anything, yet want to shake them a little when it takes ten minutes to put on a shirt. The ones who call their chaos a superpower. The moms who say, “Hurry up,” “Stop messing around,” and “Quit playing with your shoelaces and put on that shoe before I chop your foot off!” You are my tribe.
So, no, I probably won’t stop telling my kids to hurry up. I can’t, because otherwise, we’d never make it anywhere at all.
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In summary, as much as I aspire to be the calm, serene parent, the reality is that the morning rush transforms me into a frantic mother who yells to get things done. I might not be the peaceful mom I dream of being, but at least I know I’m not alone in this crazy parenting journey.