Parenting is not a Pleasure Cruise
It’s funny rummaging around in the corners of my mind, seeing what information I have tucked away over the years. One special collection of memories, like a battered box, holds all my thoughts, dreams and hopes about what it would be like to be a mother, curated from my earliest musings cradling bald, bedraggled baby dolls (all of whom were famously named Jeremy), to the days decades later, cradling a bulging belly and praying for my own baby (likely to be bald but most decidedly not named Jeremy).
Searching this little trove of whimsy, naivety and trepidation, I find many wonderful things. But not once, even dusted in the corner and scrawled on the back of some inglorious receipt paper, do I find the following:
I wonder if I will ever feel I don’t like my child.
Blasphemous, I know. Who would think that? Why I assume that thought would have occurred to me as a brand-new parent, I have no idea. Honestly, it never even occurred to me until I was holding a newborn that I’d need to trim her nails until she was old enough to do them herself. But here she was, rendering me a mother. And as a mother, it was not long until the creepy tendrils of sleep deprivation gripped my limbs, pulling me from rest and whispering unpleasant truths and half-truths into my ears. The long nights, stressful “make it work” moments and screams of my tiny, helpless baby echoed into my soul, and though each time we MacGyvered our way through, I nearly always felt defeated or frustrated.
This was not what I’d thought it would be.
Where was the flawless scoop, settle and snuggle as my new baby, pink and precious, cooed softly and looked to her rested and effortlessly beautiful mother, a bastion of wisdom and love? This squalling, demanding baby, rejecting my clumsy help, and throwing herself backwards as if dodging my pit-stained pajamas and morning breath was not what I’d envisioned. As I wrangled, wiped and whisper-begged my infant to just stop, my primal lizard brain, like an irrationally angry citizen at a town hall, would step up to the mic and shout confidently, “She’s doing this on purpose. This sucks! I’m not even sure she loves me. Maybe the feeling is mutual!”
That sentiment, even if only uttered in my mind, broke me each time it came. Those difficult moments, off and on over the years, when little ones would just not sleep, spat out the last salvaged bit of infant Tylenol (as if teething pain was preferable to artificial cherry-flavor) or threw a horrific fit at Grandma’s Christmas party brought out something dark, scary and, worst of all, a teeny bit honest in me.
No, my children were not doing anything on purpose. And they did love me. There was no denying that. I was their favorite person, their safe place. But it did suck to have those experiences and to have to be the captain of that chaotic cruise. And while I have deeply loved my children from the moment they began, I have not always liked being with them, wild and ridiculous passengers they sometimes are.
Settling back on my heels and sitting with these less rosy memories, tossed haphazardly into a disheveled box covered with scrawls of black sharpie and dysfunctional duct tape, I realize that the raw honesty of these slices of parenting life only add beauty to what it means to love a tiny human.
As we approach a holiday full of frilly hearts and candy-coated, capital-lettered LOVE everywhere, reflect on your emotions through the season you’re in. The broader the spectrum of feeling and acceptance of these ups and downs, the deeper your peace and appreciation of it will be. To quote the endlessly loving and wise Fred Rogers, “Love isn’t a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now.”
It doesn’t matter if your child is four seconds old or 4 years old (or even 40, so I hear). There will be times when their behavior is unlovable, when it is hard to love them. Don’t let it sink your ship, Captain. Just grip the helm, batten down the hatches, and love them through it. After the storm passes (or you dodge that iceberg), those darling little passengers will be delightful once more.
Alicia Kobilnyk is an Early Childhood Educator who works with young toddlers. She finds joy and inspiration to write in their cheeky shenanigans, as well as those of her three daughters.
