Parenting is never easy. As a woman, it starts with the nine months of gestation. You worry about what you are feeding your child through all those weird cravings. You listen to the “right” kind of music to help stimulate his brain development. You take walks in the hope the rocking motion will lull him to sleep and make it stop kicking you so hard.
Then you give birth, and all those books and blogs about sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, spit-ups, mastitis, well, they’re all true. Don’t even get me started with your own personal issues that include weight gain and confidence loss. Those are real enough, but that’s not the point of this story.
As your child, or in my case, two children grow up, parenting affords you more sleep. In my case, that was when my youngest turned five and he started sleeping through the night in his own bed. That meant nine years of sleepwalking excuses are out the window, and I don’t have to walk and look like a zombie during the day. Getting enough sleep (for the most part) makes you think that parenting does get easier.
Every skill your child learns, like feeding himself, wiping his own bottom, dressing up on his own, preparing his own school bag, setting the table, googling his homework assignment and mercilessly kicking you to the ground in the latest Halo game, well, they all gift you with a sense of pride and amazement – pride that the little man has acquired yet another step closer to independence, and amazement that you were instrumental in some way in his achievement, be it only limited to buying the darned Xbox and controllers.
Our eldest has been a constant source of pride and concern, love and worry, wonder and puzzlement. He is such an enigma to me, and his unique persona has always challenged the way I show my love as a parent. He is such a kind-hearted, generous and forgiving boy that we lovingly tease him as the “Dalai Lama.” A creative thinker with a vivid imagination, his classwork over the years had been pockmarked with meetings with teachers and specialists who remark on his distractibility and genius, and his seeming inability to finish work on time. I don’t think I can venture a guess as to how many sleepless nights I spent worrying and shedding a tear or two for my son, whom I’ve now cocooned into this image of fragility. And oh, the self-doubt as a mother!
My youngest is almost the polar opposite of his brother. He is competitive, prone to melodramatic outbursts (unfortunately, like his mother), outgoing and quite mature for his age. At seven, he acts like a moody teenager, self-conscious yet assertive at the same time. He is a wonderful mix of intelligence, roughness and sweetness, but don't ever tell him he's cute. I worry about totally different things with this young man. He seems so self-assured sometimes it's easy to overlook that he is still a child.
After eleven and a half years, I’ve finally reached a place where I can pull back in respect and watch my eldest son transform himself into a young man, philosophies, quirks, humour, style, tastes coming into his own. And his little brother is not far behind. It’s always been clear to me that our primary job as parents is stewardship that leads to responsible self-determination (that sounds like it came from a brochure!). If we teach our kids correctly, then we would’ve equipped them with life skills, a beliefs and value system and hopefully, a world view that makes them live their lives as responsible, caring citizens of the planet. It sounds like a tall order, but we have 18 years to do it, and fingers crossed they keep coming back to visit.
Proud and prouder moments as a parent are and always will be too numerous, but the real gems to me are those moments when I see my kids shine as their own, as individuals separate from me and my ideas of who I think they are or should be. It’s when a clever quip comes out of my younger son’s mouth, or when my oldest, who’s normally quite reserved, cracks a funny joke or a witty remark. It’s when I see my eldest tiptoe into the little one’s room to plant a goodnight kiss on the head and a pat on the back. It’s when I hear them tell stories about their day that ends with a criticism or an opinion. It’s when I catch them looking out for each other without being told, when they volunteer to help without being asked, and when they ask me about my day (like, you’re interested in someone else?).
I don’t know if I’ll ever reach the point where I am actually proud of myself as a mother, but dang! I get sooo happy and full of love for these kids just too many times I feel so lucky! Jake and Dylan, if you ever get to read this, know that Mom loves you and always will no matter what, and that your Dad and I are soooooo proud of you for just being yourselves! Thanks for being such great kids! I look forward to your teenage years ;P
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