Engaging in discussions with fellow moms about school, teachers, and upcoming events, I felt embraced by warmth and community. Yet, beneath the surface, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being an impostor—like I was merely pretending to be a parent.
Since the age of five, when I cradled my newborn sister, I envisioned myself as a mother. Her tiny features and delicate fingers captivated me. I eagerly assisted my mom, caring for my sister at every opportunity, and I yearned for my own babies. Now, I am the proud parent of two children (who may not be babies anymore, but I’ll call them that as long as I wish). Ironically, the infant stage was the simplest for me; their needs were straightforward—nurse, cuddle, change, repeat. Sure, I faced moments of doubt and overwhelming fatigue, but I generally felt competent.
As my kids grew, however, I began to feel lost. While some aspects of parenting remain instinctive, much of it feels like improvisation. For instance, each evening, I morph into a short-order chef, preparing a variety of meals that my children reject. It’s frustrating, and I desperately want to change this dynamic. I’ve been advised to present them with a few options at dinner, insisting that they either eat what’s offered or wait for the next meal. So, I gave it a shot. My younger son fared a bit better, subsisting on strawberry yogurt, while my older son sobbed on the floor from 4 to 8 p.m., a hungry, defiant bundle of emotions. Advice that works for others rarely seems to apply to him, so I find myself back in the role of a culinary magician.
Throughout the day, countless questions swirl in my mind, often leaving me perplexed. Should I prioritize organic food or save for their college funds? Am I working too much or too little? Should I insist on piano, swim, and art lessons, despite my aversion to a hectic schedule, or should I let them roam freely? Did I listen attentively to their stories, fears, and worries? Was I too distracted? Did I raise my voice too often? Does my couch contain that toxic flame retardant that could harm us? What about our cell phones—are they just mini cancer distributors?
Perhaps living in an age flooded with information complicates things. The internet bombards us with opposing views, while my social media feeds overflow with other parents wrestling with similar dilemmas, each claiming to have the ultimate answer—if only for a day. It often feels like every parenting decision I make carries an absurd weight of significance.
Yet, it feels wrong that I alone am responsible for these choices. In just a few years, I will turn 40, but I still feel like that little girl holding her sister. Parenting is chaotic—not just the physical mess (as I write, my living room floor is a battlefield of tape, dirt, and 78 toy cars)—but because most days, we feel like we’re failing. We’re inventing our approach as we go, and plans often disintegrate due to cranky, hungry, or sick kids, alongside exhausted and bewildered parents.
Maybe the only certainty in parenting is that we know very little. I believe that love—through kisses, hugs, and cuddles—can mend almost anything (again, I navigated the infant stage just fine). Sometimes, that’s all I have to offer my children. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough, and everything else will eventually fall into place.
For more insights on navigating the journey of parenthood, check out our guide on home insemination and parenting tips at Make A Mom and if you’re curious about caffeine’s effects on fertility, visit Ask The Experts. Additionally, American Pregnancy offers excellent resources for pregnancy and donor insemination.