While chatting with fellow moms about teachers, school policies, and upcoming events, I felt a wave of warmth and camaraderie. Yet, deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a fraud—like I was merely pretending to be a parent.
I’ve wanted to be a mom since I was just five years old, cradling my newborn sister in my lap. Those tiny fingers, that adorable Kewpie mouth, and her soft hair had me hooked. I jumped at every opportunity to help my mom care for her. The yearning for my own little ones only grew stronger.
Now, I’m the proud parent of two (not really babies anymore, but they’ll always be my babies). Ironically, the baby stage was the easiest for me. Their needs were straightforward: nurse, cuddle, change, repeat. Sure, I had my moments of doubt and utter exhaustion, but I generally knew what I was doing.
Then came the next phase, and suddenly I felt like I was flying blind. While some aspects of parenting come naturally, I often find myself improvising. Take dinnertime, for instance: I transform into a short-order chef, whipping up multiple meals that my kids often reject. I despise this routine. I’ve heard that the solution is to offer a few choices and let them know that this is dinner, take it or leave it. I gave it a shot for a few days. My youngest was content with nothing but strawberry yogurt, while my eldest threw a dramatic fit on the floor from 4 to 8 p.m., refusing to eat anything else. Traditional advice doesn’t seem to apply to him, so I’m back in the kitchen, cooking up a storm.
Every day brings a slew of small questions that leave me stumped. Should I splurge on organic food or save for their college tuition? Is it better for me to work more or less? Should I push for piano, swim, and art lessons, or let them roam free and figure things out on their own? Did I really listen to their worries and stories, or was I too distracted? Did I yell too much? And what about our couch—does it have that flame-retardant stuff that’s going to cause cancer? Oh, and what about cell phones—are they little cancer sticks?
Perhaps it’s the era of information overload, where opposing articles flood the internet, and my social media feed showcases other parents who seem to have it all figured out, at least for a day. It often feels like every parenting decision I make carries monumental weight.
But honestly, it feels wrong that I’m the one responsible for making these choices. I’ll be 40 in a few years, but it feels like just yesterday I was that little girl with my sister in my lap.
Parenting is undeniably messy. And I don’t just mean the physical messes—though my living room is currently a battlefield of tape, soil, and 78 Matchbox cars. I mean that most days, I feel like I’m failing. Most days, I’m just winging it. Plans often get derailed by cranky, tired, or stubborn kids—and tired, bewildered parents, too.
Maybe the only thing we can confidently say about raising kids is that we truly know nothing. Yet, I believe that love—kisses, hugs, and cuddles—can fix almost anything (I’ve got the newborn care down pat). And perhaps that’s all that really matters; the rest will fall into place.
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Summary:
Navigating the journey of parenting can often feel like an act of improvisation, with many parents feeling like they’re just winging it. From tackling mealtime challenges to grappling with the pressures of making the right decisions, it’s a messy, chaotic adventure. Ultimately, love and affection may be the most critical ingredients in raising happy, healthy kids.