As the final college acceptance letters arrive, I find myself grappling with a mix of emotions regarding my daughter’s imminent departure for college. Although I’ve prepared mentally for this transition, the reality of this in-between phase has taken me by surprise. For her, college symbolizes the start of a new adventure; for me, it feels like a poignant closing chapter. Each acceptance letter she opens seems to echo the sound of packing tape sealing her childhood—a moment that feels both definitive and irreversible.
Like many parents, I’ve stumbled along the way, and now I face a barrage of parenting regrets that vary from trivial to impactful. I lament the little things, such as not having introduced her to the joy of making “stained glass” art with crayon shavings and wax paper, to the more substantial regrets like moving during her critical high school years. That transition was as smooth as changing oral surgeons mid-root canal.
When I notice her struggling to concentrate, I can’t help but blame myself for allowing too much screen time or for getting her a cellphone too soon. I often reflect on the chores and allowances I discussed but never implemented with any consistency. If she fails to unload the dishwasher or squanders money on a frivolous lipstick, I hold myself accountable. Now, as she indulges in lengthy showers, I worry that I didn’t instill in her a strong sense of responsibility.
There were moments—fleeting and delicate—when she may have been open to learning new skills or nurturing interests, and I missed those opportunities. I remember introducing her to books at inopportune times, like suggesting she read Catcher in the Rye before she was ready for Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I enrolled her in sailing lessons when she was already too old, leading to her getting hit in the head by the boom of the tiny training boat. Perhaps if I’d shared my love for the Rolling Stones with her earlier, she wouldn’t have dismissed my music tastes so readily.
I’ve realized I became a different kind of parent than I initially envisioned. I thought I would read to my children longer, but fatigue got the better of me, and we often settled for books like Dumb Bunnies instead of the classics. My attempts at creativity, such as gluing macaroni to construction paper, barely scratched the surface of crafting. I never imagined I’d be so consumed by work that I would miss registration deadlines for recreational classes. I yearned to be the fun relative like my aunt and uncle in Michigan, who orchestrated elaborate Easter egg hunts, but I’ve never even decorated eggs with my children due to my aversion to vinegar’s smell and the mess.
I’ve never been a “Tiger Mom,” and now I ponder whether that’s why some parents over-schedule their children in an effort to avoid the same regrets I face. Is it genuine concern for their development, or fear of creating gaps in their childhood? Are piano lessons and soccer practices just a form of emotional insurance? Why do we even categorize childhood as a singular experience when our parents seemed to embrace it without the pressure to craft it into something magical?
I find myself yearning for a way to apply the lessons I’ve learned through parenting, wishing for do-overs that spare me from the chaos of diapers and temper tantrums. I sometimes think about becoming a foster parent or adopting, even though I know I’m too tired and my husband isn’t on board. When my 15-year-old son asked why I wanted another child, I blurted out, “Because I’m finally ready to be a parent,” without considering how that might resonate with him.
But let’s be honest—I would need to undergo a radical transformation to become the parent I aspire to be. I struggle with organization and can’t even manage a simple to-do list. The thought of camping feels like a nightmare, and skiing seems too costly and complicated. I’d rather not endure the cold, damp outdoors just to watch soccer practice. I crave my own time.
Regret may not be the right term for my feelings. After all, despite my parenting style that might be labeled as “benevolent neglect,” Olivia has turned out remarkably well. She is diligent, gives back to her community, and brings joy with her sharp wit. So what if she never starred in a school play or competed in chess tournaments? She’s far cooler than anything I could have conjured up, even if I never taught her how to sew (a skill I lack). At least she knows how to roll a lemon on the counter to extract more juice.
In conclusion, while the journey of parenting is fraught with regrets and missed opportunities, it’s essential to recognize that the outcome can still be positive. We may not have crafted a perfect childhood, but the love and laughter shared along the way are what truly matter.
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