As the final college acceptance letters begin to arrive, I find myself grappling with a mix of emotions. While I thought I would be fully prepared for my daughter’s departure, I’m caught in this strange limbo that feels more like an ending than a beginning. Each letter she opens sounds like the tearing of packing tape, sealing away her childhood in a way that feels permanent and irreversible.
Like every parent, I’ve stumbled along the way. Unfortunately, it’s too late for do-overs. Lately, I’ve found myself wading through a minefield of parenting regrets, ranging from trivial mishaps—like not making stained glass art with crayon shavings—to more substantial decisions, such as moving during her pivotal high school years. That transition was as smooth as switching surgeons mid-procedure.
When she struggles to focus, I can’t help but blame myself for allowing too much screen time and getting her a cell phone before she was ready. I often talked about routines for allowances and chores but never implemented them consistently. It’s no wonder I find myself fretting over her habits—whether she forgets to empty the dishwasher or splurges on a pricey lipstick. I worry that I failed to instill a sense of responsibility in her.
There were fleeting opportunities where she might have been more open to learning new skills or exploring interests, and I missed them. I introduced her to classic literature at the wrong moments; she wasn’t ready for Catcher in the Rye before Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I enrolled her in sailing lessons when she was too tall for the small boat, and she ended up getting hit on the head by the boom. Perhaps if I had shared my love for the Rolling Stones earlier, she might not think my taste in music is so outdated.
I envisioned myself as a different kind of parent—one who would read endlessly with my children and engage in creative projects. However, I often found myself too exhausted to keep up with those dreams. We skimmed over the classics and settled for simple crafts. I never became the parent who organized grand Easter egg hunts or decorated for the holidays, and one year we skipped the Christmas tree entirely.
I’ve never been the “Tiger Mom” type, and I sometimes wonder if that’s why some parents over-schedule their children with activities. Are they genuinely concerned for their kids’ growth, or are they trying to avoid the regrets I’m currently grappling with? Perhaps they fear their children will look back and see empty spaces in their childhood. But childhood itself was never something our parents sought to package and present as a perfect experience; we simply lived it.
I wish there were a way to apply the lessons I’ve learned without having to revisit the chaos of early parenthood—without the diapers and tantrums. Sometimes I contemplate fostering or adopting, even though I know that I might be too worn out for that. When my son asked why I’d want another child at this stage, I blurted out, “Because I’m finally ready to be a parent.” What a naive thought!
I realize that to be a different parent, I’d have to become a different person altogether. I struggle with organization and can’t manage even basic to-do lists. Camping sounds unbearable, and watching soccer practice in the rain doesn’t appeal to me at all. I often crave my own space and solitude.
Regret might not be the perfect word for what I’m feeling. After all, Olivia has turned out wonderfully despite my parenting style, which could be labeled as benign neglect. She works hard, volunteers, and has a quick wit that brings laughter to our home. So what if she didn’t star in school plays or rack up trophies? Her bookshelf filled with books is a testament to her character. She’s unique and amazing in her own right, even if I failed to teach her skills like sewing (which I also don’t know how to do). At least she knows the trick of rolling a lemon on the counter for more juice!
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In summary, as I navigate the complexities of parenting and the regrets that accompany it, I remind myself that every experience—good or bad—shapes our children into who they are destined to become. There’s no perfect roadmap for parenting, and it’s the journey, with all its bumps, that truly counts.
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