Parenting
I genuinely strive to be a calm and mindful parent. I wake up before my little ones are even stirring, take a moment to meditate, and often force down a glass of warm lemon water that’s supposed to enlighten my gut flora—whatever that means. I remind myself that today will be different; I won’t raise my voice. I won’t urge them to hurry. I won’t even mention that they need to focus. I will embody the loving, patient mother I aim to be.
Then, my kids wake up.
Instantly, I’m overwhelmed with affection for their sleepy faces and snug bodies; I just want to squeeze those adorable cheeks. Their bedhead and unique scent make them irresistible. I cherish these moments, knowing that parenting is a beautiful journey.
But then it’s time to prepare for the day.
Suddenly, they’re whining about breakfast choices, claiming their favorite clothes are dirty, and protesting the snacks I offer. Any suggestion for lunch is met with tears. The morning routine feels like a reenactment of a horror movie. They seem to forget that hair brushing is a daily occurrence, standing still like statues while I plead with them. It’s as if every shoe has vanished overnight, and communication has devolved into growls. With the bus arriving in mere minutes and the realization that it will take them at least seven to get dressed, panic sets in. Their homework? Gone. Their toothbrushes? Missing. That prized rock for show-and-tell? Lost. It’s as if chaos reigns, and I remember that parenting can be utterly maddening.
In that moment, I am far from the peaceful mother I envisioned. I have no clue who that tranquil woman is or what she was thinking. I’m not calm; I’m in a frenzy, fixated on my desperate need for coffee before work. The thought of missing the bus sends me into a tailspin, and before I know it, I’m shouting, “Hurry up!” My frantic energy seems to be the only thing that propels them into motion. It’s as if my craziness transforms into superpowers, getting them to finally do what needs to be done.
I have immense respect for those serene mothers who manage to arrive on time—who never yell or lose their cool. I admire those who never utter, “I’ve raised a bunch of human slugs,” and still manage to leave the house without raising their voices. To those mothers, I tip my hat, though I can’t quite believe they exist.
But for the rest of us—those who experiment with various parenting techniques only to find ourselves cursing before 8 a.m., perpetually running late, and wishing our children would get dressed just a little faster—you are my tribe. We love our kids fiercely, yet sometimes want to shake them gently while they take ten minutes to put on a shirt. We embrace our “crazy” as a necessary survival tactic, often resorting to phrases like “Hurry up!” or “Stop messing around with your shoelaces and put on your shoes before I lose it!”
So, no, I likely won’t stop telling my kids to hurry. Because if I do, we’d be stuck at home forever.
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In summary, parenting is a wild mix of joy and chaos, and while I strive to maintain my cool, reality often pulls me back into the whirlwind. We all navigate this journey differently, and that’s perfectly okay.