Flashback to 1988. I was just nine years old, watching my mother tend to my siblings and dreaming about having my own family someday. I envisioned a charming nursery adorned with a Laura Ashley set, lovingly arranged by a husband who looked a bit like a young heartthrob from the ’90s. I never considered what life would be like after that adorable baby phase ended. I only thought about the cozy moments of bottle-feeding, burping, and the delightful aroma of tiny clothes. The broader implications of parenting—raising little ones who would eventually grow into independent adults—never crossed my mind.
That reality hit home over the Christmas break when my husband was around more than usual. I would tidy up the kitchen, vacuum the floors, and pat myself on the back for managing it all while the kids were home. Anyone with children knows that cleaning is not merely about tidying up; it’s about navigating chaos while they’re right there with you, often in the midst of snacking on Oreos while brushing your teeth.
Just when I thought I could enjoy a moment with my new library book, one of my kids would come up to me with requests like, “Mom, where are my pants?” or “Can you get me a cup of water?” My first instinct is to sigh, wishing to enjoy my brief respite. But then a nagging thought creeps in: “What if I regret not doing these small things later?” After all, the wise sayings echo in my mind: “Kids grow up so fast!” and “The cobwebs will always be there!”
Having witnessed the heartbreaking stories of others—the child who lost their battle with illness, the teenager taken too soon, or the couple yearning for just one child—makes me feel selfish for wanting to take a break. I can’t help but think of the precious time I have with my kids.
When I first held my daughter, it was amidst stark surgical lights. She was whisked away to the NICU, and I could do nothing but listen to the nurses as they took her. Finally becoming a mom, yet feeling helpless, was an overwhelming contradiction. The moment we were able to bring her home, I embraced the opportunity to care for her with open arms.
Now, almost ten years later, when I ask her to brush her hair, she often replies with a dramatic sigh, “Can’t you just do it? You always do it faster!” This raises the question: is speed really the goal here? I’m starting to wonder. Yet, I find myself giving in, doing everything from hair brushing and tooth cleaning to even helping with homework—yes, I admit to that.
I often feel the need to apologize for doing so much for my children, but the guilt of not being there for them transforms into an anxiety about what if tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. So I continue to seize those imperfect moments, even if they involve the occasional messy cleanup or hastily signing my child’s name on a school form.
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In summary, my devotion to my children stems from the fleeting nature of childhood and the desire to be present in every moment, no matter how chaotic.