I was chatting with other parents about teachers, school rules, and upcoming events. Surrounded by warmth and camaraderie, I still felt like a fraud—like I was merely playing the role of a parent.
From the moment I cradled my newborn sister at the age of five, I knew I wanted to be a mom. Her cherubic mouth, tiny fingers, and soft hair captivated me. I was my mother’s best helper, eager to care for my sister at every opportunity. The desire for my own children burned brightly within me.
Fast forward to today, and I have two little ones (not technically babies, but I’ll call them that for as long as I wish). The baby phase felt surprisingly manageable. Their needs were straightforward: nurse, cuddle, change, repeat. Though I experienced moments of doubt and overwhelming exhaustion, I generally felt equipped to handle it.
Then came the next stage, where I began to feel utterly lost. While some aspects of parenting still come naturally, I often feel like I’m improvising everything.
For instance, every evening, I transform into a short-order chef, whipping up various meals that my kids promptly reject. It’s frustrating. I want things to change. I’ve been advised to simply present them with a few options and declare that this is dinner—eat it or wait until the next meal.
So, I gave it a shot for a few days. My younger son managed somewhat, though he only wanted strawberry yogurt. My older son, however, threw himself on the floor, crying from 4 to 8 p.m., a hungry and indignant mess. Conventional advice seems to fail him. So, here I am again, master of the short-order kitchen.
Throughout each day, I’m bombarded with a million little questions that leave me scratching my head. Should I prioritize organic foods or save for their college education? Should I work more or less? Should I insist on piano, swim, and art lessons even if I despise being busy, or should I let them roam freely? Did I really listen to their stories, fears, and doubts? Did I get distracted? Did I yell too often? Is there flame-retardant material in our couch that’s harmful? Are our cell phones simply tiny cancer sticks?
Maybe it has to do with the era we live in—where information overload reigns supreme. The Internet is flooded with conflicting advice, while my social media feeds showcase other parents grappling with similar dilemmas, all seemingly certain of their solutions for a day. It often feels as though every parenting decision I make is weighted with excessive significance.
What’s more unsettling is that I’m the one expected to make these decisions. I’ll be 40 before I know it, and I’m still that little girl cradling her sister.
Parenting is chaotic, and I don’t just mean the physical messes (right now, my living room floor is scattered with tape, dirt, and 78 Matchbox cars). It’s the emotional turmoil; most days, it feels like I’m failing. Most days, I’m just winging it. Every plan can quickly be derailed by cranky, hungry, sick, or stubborn children—and let’s not forget the exhausted, bewildered parents as well.
Perhaps the only certainty in parenting is that we truly know very little. I genuinely believe that love—through kisses, hugs, and cuddles—can mend anything (I handled the newborn stage just fine), and sometimes, it feels like that’s all I have to offer. Maybe that’s sufficient, and the rest will eventually fall into place.
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In summary, parenting is a journey filled with uncertainty and challenges. It’s messy, chaotic, and often overwhelming, but perhaps all we need is a little love to make it through.
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