Parenting is f’in hard.
It is, no joke, nearly a daily ass kicking. When he was a baby, he didn’t sleep. When he
was a toddler, he woke me with night terrors and illness. When he was a preschooler, he realized when my
energy was drained, he could literally get away with anything. When he was a grade schooler, he grew
independence and didn’t need me anymore.
Now that he is a middle schooler, he thinks he knows everything.
There is no winning when you are a mom. When you think you have it all figured out, something changes, and you once again are forced to reinvent the wheel. Kids are unique, they are beautiful combinations of mom and dad, and no two are the same. Birth, 12 years ago, was the hardest thing I had ever done. Twelve years after shooting out that little crotch pheasant, I can’t believe how fast time has flown. How much has changed. One thing is for certain, a kid will never be able to thank his mom enough for carrying him around in the womb for nine months, enduring a labor that is nothing but a labor of love. There are not enough hand-made cards, breakfast-in-beds, or calls back home on Mother’s day when they are adults, to express the amount of gratitude needed to bring a life into this world and raise it to be a good human. Each day is a struggle of maintaining patience, a drain on your energy, an endless amount of cooking and dishes and cleaning and laundry, a multitude of doubt, fear, and a daily prayer that they won’t end up totally screwed up by your half-assed guesswork of parenting decisions.
There is no winning when you are a mom. When you think you have it all figured out, something changes, and you once again are forced to reinvent the wheel. Kids are unique, they are beautiful combinations of mom and dad, and no two are the same. Birth, 12 years ago, was the hardest thing I had ever done. Twelve years after shooting out that little crotch pheasant, I can’t believe how fast time has flown. How much has changed. One thing is for certain, a kid will never be able to thank his mom enough for carrying him around in the womb for nine months, enduring a labor that is nothing but a labor of love. There are not enough hand-made cards, breakfast-in-beds, or calls back home on Mother’s day when they are adults, to express the amount of gratitude needed to bring a life into this world and raise it to be a good human. Each day is a struggle of maintaining patience, a drain on your energy, an endless amount of cooking and dishes and cleaning and laundry, a multitude of doubt, fear, and a daily prayer that they won’t end up totally screwed up by your half-assed guesswork of parenting decisions.
There aren’t enough apologies in the world I could make to
my mom on Mother’s Day, or any day, for the hell I put her through. No matter,
what I do it would never be enough. So
with the Ho'oponopono prayer: I’m sorry mom, forgive me, thank you, I love you.
When I look at my son each day, I think how right it was he
was put here on this earth to test me, to teach me, to grow me, to heal
me. And boy do I have a lot to still
learn. It's all yoga.
No comments:
Post a Comment