In the early days of motherhood, I was surprisingly laid-back. I weaned my son from breastfeeding at just three weeks, despite my pediatrician explaining the myriad benefits of breast milk for his immune system and development. I even “Ferberized” him unintentionally at six weeks when I forgot to switch on the baby monitor, blissfully unaware of his cries echoing from across the house. One evening when he was five months old, he rolled off the changing table, and after a quick visual check, I deemed him fine—he even laughed that night, perhaps in disbelief at my parenting antics.
My daughter, on the other hand, rarely had a proper afternoon nap, as I was always on the go, juggling errands or social calls while pushing her stroller. I once took her to watch her brother’s nursery school play in a wet diaper and without socks in the dead of winter—no spare diaper or socks in sight. Yet, she beamed throughout the performance, sitting on my lap like it was the most normal thing in the world.
But I wasn’t entirely carefree; my mind was occupied with my mother, who was in the final stages of her long battle with cancer when my son was born. While I breezed through my son’s checkups, signing immunization papers without a second glance, I was furiously taking notes during my mother’s appointments, desperate to understand her treatments. I found myself wishing I could uncover a miracle cure, but ultimately, I couldn’t. She passed away when my son was just nine months old.
Back then, parenting felt almost effortless, likely because my attention was diverted elsewhere. I was amazed by other mothers who meticulously tracked feeding schedules and baby classes—I simply didn’t have the bandwidth for that. I was busy mourning my mother, keeping her memory alive, and managing family obligations while also nurturing friendships that had become vital post-loss. Balancing my marriage and career only added to the whirlwind.
Now, 15 years later, I’ve noticed a shift in my parenting style. I worry more about my older kids—Am I making the right choices regarding their education? Am I guiding them effectively to make wise decisions as they grow? Am I involved enough in their lives, or perhaps too much? When these worries consume me, I often share my fears with friends or family, expressing my desire not to mess up my kids. Is that too much to hope for?
Reflecting on how far my children have come since those early days, I see that my son, who received only three weeks of breast milk, is now thriving, with no allergies and a knack for sports and knowledge. My daughter, brimming with energy and never one to nap, now enjoys our outings together, whether it’s walks or shopping, and no longer needs my lap to feel secure.
Could it be that my initial nonchalance toward parenting has actually paid off? Perhaps my kids were simply destined to become who they are. Whatever the reason, I’ve come to realize that being a “calm mom” is often more challenging than it appears. And above all, I still hold onto the hope that I won’t screw up my kids—that’s a reasonable wish, right?
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Summary:
Initially a laid-back mom, I found my parenting style shifted as I navigated the stress of my mother’s illness. While I once breezed through early motherhood, I now grapple with concerns about my children’s futures and my role in shaping them. Despite my worries, I recognize the growth and resilience of my kids, and I continue to seek balance in my parenting approach.
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