“No Mommy! Go away! I don’t want you!”
The poetry of toddlers. It’s really something.
It’s been said that having a three-year-old is like being on constant caretaking duty of a drunk friend in college. And, I mean, it’s not far off. They severely overestimate their own gross motor skills, seek attention in inappropriate ways, and oscillate from one side of the emotional spectrum to the other at a dizzying speed. And, perhaps the most challenging is the way they treat you, their caregiver, the human they are currently relying on for physical survival – one minute they “love you so so much forever and ever”, and the next they’re telling you to “leave me alone - I can do this myself!” (Morgan Freeman narrator voice: But indeed, she could not do it herself.) The main difference is that if college friend’s behavior gets too out of control, you can eventually drop them off at their parents’ house. With a toddler... well, YOU’RE that parent.
When we were struggling with infertility, in the midst of treatments and miscarriages and arguments and bank account managing, it was sometimes hard to hear the stories of those in the trenches. I knew logically that parenting was hard, but at times it was discouraging to hear people complain about the thing we were fighting like hell to achieve. I’d be lying if I said I never resented these complaints, because they were problems I wanted to have. And I’d also be lying that the stories didn’t elicit a lot of fear in me. What WERE we fighting like hell for, anyway?
It was the fear that clung to my thoughts the most, hanging on like a fly that won’t leave the windshield. I feared I couldn’t handle it. I feared I wouldn’t be able to cope with sleepless nights. I worried I’d never be fully myself again. But also, deep back in the recesses of my psyche, I wondered if I “could” admit to the hard parts of parenting, because we waited and fought for it. A bunch of made-up voices would sneer things like “I thought you wanted this sooo bad! So bad you wrote a blog about it. What are you complaining about?” I worried that I had spent so many words talking about the hard parts of becoming parents that we wouldn’t be allotted any more for the hard parts of the actual parenting.
I know, in reality, that is a steaming pile of sweaty self-doubt insecure nonsense. I really do. But when our limbic system is driving the bus - which seems to be the primary operator of Parenting Express - it becomes harder to discern what is Truth and what is Sweaty Self-Doubt Insecure Nonsense in a really convincing Truth costume.
While it’s true that maybe those of us who waited awhile to become parents might have a different perspective because we have felt the deep ache of desire that hasn’t been realized, it doesn’t mean we don’t have pain receptors for the tough stuff. One hard doesn’t erase the other. It is still hard to be up every hour throughout the night. It is still hard to have slept so little you realize you can’t recall brushing your teeth because there has been no true morning or night. It is still hard to pace around the house bouncing a hysterical four-month-old who is not impressed by your attempts to soothe. It is still hard to experience what I call the “Target Starfish”, where your toddler crashes to the floor at Target with arms and legs splayed like they’ve been wounded in battle because you won’t buy the whole damn aisle. It will be hard when my son is driving a motor vehicle. Jesus, take the wheel. No, literally, please take the
wheel... I can’t imagine him being coordinated enough to steer one.
It is all still hard.
It’s okay to say things are hard. Even the things you wept and prayed for. Sometimes, those are the things that are the hardest.