Before you have children, experienced parents tell you “it’s harder than you think!” They smile a smug smile and relate stories of sleepless nights, and potty training, and the Dreaded First Day of Kindergarten and how they cried as their child got on the bus/walked into the classroom/waved goodbye/cried for mommy.
Those things for me? The first two were….tiring. The third one became my secret shame-I was simply happy for some child-free time. Helped that my kids liked daycare/preschool/kindergarten.
What’s hard? Having your son kicked out of daycare for being “too active” and NOT UNDERSTANDING that constantly hitting and kicking everyone around him was NOT OKAY. Having everyone around look at you as if you’re the problem, you simply aren’t disciplining him well enough. Seeing the sweetheart inside him and WILLING it to take over the brat part.
Then you take him in for diagnosis and realize you wish it were as simple as not disciplining him enough. Then words like “disorder” and “therapy” wouldn’t have to be thrown about like the toys your son is hucking at the wall and you. Then he throws him arms around you tell looks into your eyes with his full of love and you see the sweetheart again but the little twerp just REFUSES to behave….no, sorry, CAN’T behave because he has a disorder which may lead to a much bigger one if not “turned around and worked on diligently now”.
And that makes you feel more tired than the eight months that he didn’t sleep for more than 45 fucking minutes at a time. He is not called Dr. Pepper here for no reason.
Then as soon as you’ve finished a round of therapy for him, and everyone is talking about how much better he’s doing, and you’ve found a new daycare where his teachers love him and he loves them and you feel like you can take a deep breath?
Your daughter ups her Jekyll and Hyde act that has been brewing for years, and becomes “socially delayed”. This is the same daughter who you’ve always so proudly talked about (get real, you bragged about) being “so social! Friendly to everyone!” Now she can only hold a friendship long enough for the other child to discover that Fresca can be a bit dramatic. Which is like saying a blazing forest fire can be a bit toasty. And as she vacillates from a laughing sparkling beautiful little girl to a raging demon child to a sobbing pile of misery-and back again- you realize you simply don’t know what to do. So you try to talk to her, you get her a therapist, and you hope that with time, and a little effort (but not too much, please, 'cause that would be HARD) she’ll be just fine.
Then her teacher asks to have a meeting with you, and says she feels that your daughter also may have a disorder. An emotional one. Because she seems literally unable to control her emotions, or understand how they affect other people. Oh yay! We already have one kid with a behavioral disorder, wouldn’t want to repeat that, now would we? Let’s not be boring, so an EMOTIONAL one it is!
Add in the fact that you are getting divorced.
Add in that the teacher has also told you that you are “too intense” and that she “can see where Fresca gets her way of speaking” and you KNOW that’s not a positive thing.
Add in two step-siblings for her. Who, of course, come with a step-dad.
Add in that this is only 2% of the entire story.
And here’s the hard part (again). Because you realized years ago that you aren’t the Amazing Parent you always thought you’d be. In fact, you’re kind of mediocre. Occasionally, you suck.
No, I lied. The hard part is next. It’s where you realize it doesn’t matter that you’re mediocre at best. It doesn’t matter that you’re actually kind of lazy too. Because you’re the Mom. And you might fail. And you might fail again. But you absolutely cannot quit. And despite everyone who says not to worry, that they’ll grow up just fine, you KNOW that some people simply do NOT grow up just fine. In fact, many, many people grow up damaged beyond repair. Many, many people grow up always hurting and never happy and forever lonely. And there is simply no guarantee that your children won’t.
The hardest part for me? That I can’t just DO something, make it all better, and be done. It’s a process that will take years. I HATE processes that take years and come with no guarantee. Especially ones I am in charge of. Who decided I was capable of this?!
It’s an old, old joke, but true- they make you get a license to drive, hunt, and catch a fish. They make you wait until a certain age to do said driving, drink (not that that is well managed) and vote. But any woman who is old enough to bleed can have a baby. No tests involved before you cart that baby out of the hospital into the Wild Blue Yonder. They do check to make sure you have installed the car seat correctly. That, apparently, is the only necessary indication of your parenting abilities. Yes? You have properly clicked the seatbelt around this piece of plastic/metal/Styrofoam? Excellent! Here is a Living Breathing Being of your very own! Try not to kill it. Oh, and feed it only organic foods, teach it to be openminded and kindmakesureitknowsyouloveitalwaysmaketherightdecisionseverydayforthenexteighteenyearsBYENOW!
So here you go. Bumbling along. I wish you luck. Send some my way?
Yep, that’s it. No proper ending here. That’s the point. That’s the hard part.
Oh, and by the way. Do NOT read What to Expect When You’re Expecting. That book will give you panic attacks about all the wrong things you are doing to your Precious New Embryo, things like eating entire GRAMS of sugar. Trust me. Just don’t.
Lemon Drop, M.D.
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