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Parenting Is Epic Work
And I saw Sisyphus too, forever trapped in his own torment, wrestling with that colossal boulder, pouring every ounce of strength into pushing it uphill. Each time it wobbled on the brink, ready to roll down, the relentless weight would send it crashing back down to the plain. So he would heave and strain, sweat pouring down, dust swirling around him. – Homer, The Odyssey
“How’s it going?” is a question we hear frequently. For many years, my response was a simple “fine” or “good,” no matter the reality. But after my son’s arrival, those quick replies felt not only misleading but emotionally disingenuous. You can’t really unload on a stranger: “My toddler is crying so much that I sometimes go for a run just to escape the noise. But, we’re fortunate to have access to great healthcare, so there’s that! I’m totally overwhelmed, but also thankful. Thanks for asking!”
Eventually, I settled on a socially palatable response: “I can’t complain.”
As a former professional now staying home by choice, I know I shouldn’t complain. Yet, I often feel the urge, because let’s be honest—parenting sometimes feels like a form of torture.
“Mahh,” six years and two kids later, a different little one shrieks, “mahh, mahh, mahh.” She’s trying to score more grapes when we’ve already run out, and her cries are loud enough to set off car alarms. Meanwhile, my 6-year-old is on a rampage of his own, demanding attention while I’m on my feet, trying to cook dinner.
“It’s not fair! None of the other kids have to do this! Why did you make me go to the doctor? You’re so mean! You’re the worst mommy in the world!” The hysterical accusations continue, a cacophony of complaints that would make any adult want to pull their hair out. And while my 3-year-old zooms through the room, creating chaos, I find my eyes welling up with tears—not from hurt feelings, but from sheer overwhelm.
It’s the tiny inconveniences that pile up: a sleepless night, waiting to use the bathroom, a bit of hunger pangs, constant noise, lack of personal space—all part of the parent life. Ironically, these same experiences are some of the techniques used in interrogation methods discussed in the classic book Criminal Interrogation and Confessions, applied in harsher forms in places like Guantanamo.
Interrogators ramp up stress by alternating between camaraderie and censure or bringing in another person to the mix. Sounds an awful lot like adding a sibling to the family and navigating their wild mood swings—from “Mommy, you’re the best!” to “You’re mean, bad Mama!”
But let’s not kid ourselves—it’s not actual torture. When you consider the hardships faced by refugees, the challenges of raising kids pale in comparison. Yet, it can feel torturous, especially when you’re stacking dishes, repacking lunch boxes, and triaging a million other tasks while juggling emotional ups and downs day after day, year after year.
The myth of Sisyphus symbolizes tedious labor, but I don’t quite see it that way. His struggle is physical, using all his faculties to roll that rock uphill. It’s not just the weight of the boulder, the steep incline, and the dust swirling around; it’s the endlessness of it all that renders his task epic.
So here I stand, staring at yet another sink full of dishes, feeling the weight of frustration, agitation, and fear, longing for an escape from this pressure cooker of parenthood. I know I shouldn’t complain, but I have plenty of valid reasons to want to.
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In summary, parenting is undeniably epic work, full of challenges that require both strength and resilience. While it might feel like an endless cycle of tasks and emotional roller coasters, the rewards can be profound, even if they often come alongside a good dose of chaos.