Updated: June 18, 2014
Originally Published: Feb. 21, 2011
When my partner agreed to start a family with me, I was taken aback. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, we had chosen a girl’s name—Lila—only four months into our relationship. This name was inspired by a character from a movie we loved, though we certainly didn’t intend for our future daughter to emulate her!
Despite having a name in mind, I was still astounded by his enthusiastic acceptance of my proposal for parenthood. Maybe it was the sight of me in pajamas, happily indulging in snacks, with a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink that made my request seem more whimsical than serious. I certainly didn’t embody the calm, collected individual I thought I’d need to be to convince him to embark on this adventure together. In reality, I looked more like an overgrown teenager than a future parent.
I have a curious relationship with accomplishing tasks. I tackle my passions with fervor, while mundane chores linger indefinitely. If I were to set out to conquer a new realm, I’m confident I’d do so with remarkable efficiency, yet my laundry basket would still be overflowing.
When our daughter entered the world, we wisely chose not to name her Lila, despite it being our only option. I often find myself questioning our decisions in parenthood. We’ve improved on our household chores, but there are still moments when I feel like I’m merely pretending to be a parent.
When my child does something mischievous or adventurous, I often struggle to suppress a laugh. There are times when I wish she could stay up just a bit longer so we could continue our fun, and other moments when I long for her to go to bed so I can enjoy some peace without wiping sticky hands off the walls.
I don’t feel particularly parental most days. I had imagined that motherhood would strip me of my love for pop culture and my sense of humor, but that hasn’t been the case. I’m still wandering around in my loungewear at 4 PM, flipping through channels to catch a countdown show rather than children’s programming. Stricken with guilt about exposing her to the latest celebrity scandals, I find myself dancing along to kids’ shows instead—but I don’t always relish it. I’m constantly uncertain about when and how to discipline her.
Despite reading countless parenting books and articles, none have unveiled the secret to being a good parent. Each day feels like a balancing act, driven more by instinct than by any real plan. I’m simply pretending to have it all figured out, even though I often feel as if I’m still a child myself.
This leads me to ponder: Were our parents simply putting on an act as well? I wouldn’t be surprised if they were. My mother’s laughter at my parenting struggles suggests I might be onto something.
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In summary, the journey of parenthood often feels like a balancing act, where we question our abilities and wonder if our own parents were ever truly confident in their roles. Ultimately, we may all be navigating this path together, pretending to have it all figured out.