Before I embraced parenthood, I was constantly told that the love I would feel for my children would surpass anything I had ever experienced. Friends, family, and even strangers would chime in, exclaiming, “Holding your baby will be the most incredible experience of your life!”
So, it was quite a shock when I first held my daughter and felt a wave of anxiety instead of the promised joy. My mind raced with worries—Would I drop her? Was I equipped to raise her properly? Did we choose the right name? What on earth had I gotten myself into by thinking I could nurture a human being?
This fear only compounded my anxiety. Did feeling scared mean I was destined to be a terrible mother? Where was the love I was assured would be overflowing? Maybe I was just flawed.
The tide began to turn two weeks later during a sleepless night when my daughter screamed relentlessly. After exhausting every method to soothe her, I broke down in tears, pleading, “Please, I’m doing my best, just stop crying.” To my astonishment, she did. The absurdity of that moment made me laugh. Looking at my tiny baby, who seemed to have features from both her father and a certain famous politician, I realized she was just as confused as I was. The fear began to fade.
I was reminded of that moment when a well-meaning friend remarked how this stage with my infant and my three-year-old was golden. “You’ll miss it when it’s gone. It was the happiest time of my life,” she said.
My days are filled with purpose, meaning, and the chaos of parenting—including an abundance of diaper changes—but calling it the happiest time of my life? I’m not convinced. Admitting that makes me fear I’m failing. Surely, I must be doing something wrong if I can’t find joy in scrubbing poop out of the carpet.
Countless parenting books and websites insist that if you encounter a problem, you can fix it. If your child is acting out or refusing to use the toilet, there are solutions—firmness, patience, and products available online can supposedly save the day. The underlying message is clear: if you’re not happy, it’s your fault, and you must be broken.
I wish the term “happy” could be banished from conversations about parenting. The notion that bliss is the ultimate goal is unrealistic. Life is messy and challenging, and sometimes things don’t just get better. Our self-help culture suggests all issues can be tackled, but when your toddler continues to ignore the potty training guide, well, good luck with that.
No parent who has ever collapsed on the floor in tears while surrounded by crying children is broken. No mother who looks at her child with sheer panic needs fixing. And no mom who wishes she could escape from the sticky, poop-scented living room is doing it wrong. Instead of parenting manuals that preach improvement, I long for resources that simply help us accept the chaos, the joy, the frustration, and the anxiety that come with the journey.
Because I’m done chasing happiness.
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In summary, parenting is not about achieving a state of constant happiness. It’s about navigating the challenges with grace, humor, and acceptance of the complexities involved.