Initially, I was a remarkably relaxed parent. I stopped nursing my son, Jack, when he was merely three weeks old, despite our pediatrician presenting compelling evidence about the benefits of breast milk on an infant’s health and development. One night, I unintentionally “Ferberized” him at just six weeks old because I forgot to turn on the baby monitor, failing to hear his cries from a different floor. When Jack was five months old, he tumbled off the changing table during bath time. I examined him visually and audibly, and he seemed fine, even laughing afterward—possibly at my frantic reaction.
My daughter, Lily, never took a substantial afternoon nap. I was too busy to prioritize her rest, dragging her along with me or our babysitter to pick up Jack from various activities or to enjoy a stroll for fresh air and a chat with a friend. There was even an occasion when I took her to Jack’s preschool play while she was in a wet diaper and without socks in the freezing winter. I didn’t have a spare diaper or an extra pair of socks. Yet, she beamed throughout the performance, happily sitting on my lap in the makeshift theater.
It wasn’t that I was completely carefree; my mind was occupied with my mother’s declining health during my son’s early months. She was in the final stages of her lengthy battle with cancer when Jack was born. My focus was on her well-being rather than on typical parenting anxieties. I breezed through Jack’s pediatric appointments, quickly signing forms related to immunizations without a second thought. Instead, I took numerous notes during my mother’s medical visits, desperate for answers or a potential treatment to extend her life, despite my lack of scientific training. Tragically, she passed away when Jack was just nine months old.
During those early years, parenting felt effortless, perhaps because my attention was diverted elsewhere. I observed other mothers obsessing over feeding schedules, bedtime routines, and baby classes, and I couldn’t relate. I was caught up in managing my grief, cooking for my widowed father, hosting family gatherings, nurturing friendships that became crucial after my mother’s passing, and striving for a balanced life with my husband while maintaining my career.
Fast forward to fifteen years later, and I find myself less relaxed. My worries have shifted from the minor issues of toddlers to the more significant concerns that accompany raising older children. I frequently question whether I’m making the right choices regarding their education and if I’m adequately preparing them to make wise decisions independently. Am I involved enough in their lives? Or am I overstepping? When such thoughts arise, I confide in my husband, my father, or anyone willing to listen, expressing my desire to avoid making mistakes with my kids.
Reflecting on my parenting journey, I remind myself of how much Jack and Lily have grown. Jack, who only received three weeks of breast milk, is now healthy and has been sleeping soundly since that fateful night of the baby monitor mishap. His tumble from the changing table hasn’t hindered his enthusiasm for sports or his overall composed demeanor. Meanwhile, Lily is full of energy, rarely napping except during long car rides. She enjoys accompanying me on walks and outings, and while no longer sitting in my lap for plays, she remains delightful company.
Perhaps my earlier nonchalance in parenting has served us well, or maybe my children are simply destined for greatness. Regardless, I’m beginning to believe that a less anxious approach may be beneficial. However, managing that balance can be challenging, and I truly want to do right by my kids.
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In summary, parenting can be both a delightful and daunting journey. While my early days were marked by a carefree attitude amid personal turmoil, the transition to a more thoughtful approach has brought its own set of challenges. Regardless, watching my children thrive reassures me that perhaps a little less worry is the key.