In 1988, at the tender age of nine, I found myself captivated by my mother’s nurturing spirit, envisioning a future where I too would embrace motherhood. I imagined a charming nursery, beautifully arranged by a husband resembling a young Jonathan Brandis. My fantasies were limited to the early, enchanting days of parenthood—those fleeting moments filled with bottles, burping, and the delightful scent of baby clothes. I neglected to consider the long-term journey of parenthood, the gradual nurturing of children into independent individuals.
This realization struck me during a recent Christmas break when my husband was home for an extended period. I would take pride in my spotless kitchen and vacuumed floors, feeling accomplished for managing it all while the kids were underfoot. As any parent knows, cleaning amidst the chaos of children is no easy task, often akin to brushing your teeth while devouring Oreos.
Just as I settled in to enjoy a new library book, one of my children would inevitably approach with a request: “Mom, where are my pants?” or “Can you help me find my toothbrush?” (Yes, I am still brushing my nine-year-old’s teeth.) In those moments, I often felt a wave of reluctance, wishing to enjoy my brief respite. But then, a familiar thought would surface: “One day, I might regret not being present for them.” After all, the age-old adages ring true—“Babies don’t keep!” and “Cherish these moments; kids grow up fast!”
These reminders weigh heavily on me, urging me to embrace every opportunity to engage with my kids. The heart-wrenching stories of parents who have faced unimaginable loss linger in my mind, compelling me to act. I recall the child who succumbed to a brain tumor at a young age, or the teenager who lost their life in a tragic accident. I cannot shake the thought of the woman who yearned for a child for years but faced heartbreak instead. In light of these realities, it feels almost selfish to ignore my children’s needs.
The moment I first met my daughter was surreal, under glaring surgical lights, where I could only glimpse her before she was whisked away to the NICU. My role felt limited to passive observation, unable to hold her or comfort her. However, when we finally brought her home, despite the need for special care, I threw myself into the role of caregiver with unbridled joy.
Fast forward to now; she is nearly ten. When I ask her to brush her hair, I hear her sigh and respond with a familiar tween tone, “Can’t you just do it? You always do it faster!” This begs the question: is efficiency my ultimate goal? Despite my inclination to do everything for her—brushing hair, cleaning rooms, even helping with homework—I’m starting to question the long-term implications of my actions.
I often feel the need to justify my approach to parenting. If I don’t assist my children, the guilt of not being involved translates to fears of potential loss. Hence, I continue to seize those moments, no matter how imperfect they may be, even if it means wiping sticky faces or occasionally signing my child’s name on homework assignments.
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In summary, my commitment to my children stems from a deep-seated desire to cherish every moment and ensure they feel supported as they navigate their formative years. Despite the challenges and occasional guilt, I find purpose in my actions, hoping to create lasting memories.
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