My arrival into the world wasn’t exactly expected; my parents had hoped for seven long years to welcome me. During that time, my mother diligently tracked her temperature daily after my older sibling was born. I can’t help but be grateful for their unwavering desire to have me; I always felt loved and wanted, even if I decided to make my entrance on April Fool’s Day, much to my mother’s surprise.
From the very beginning, I was doted on by my mom, dad, and big brother. My parents adopted a nurturing approach, believing that babies should never have to cry. If you’re curious about how often I was set down during my first year, let’s just say it was quite rare. Though I experienced the usual rules growing up, I was never deprived of anything. I grew up expecting life to be a leisurely stroll where I got everything I wanted—and yes, I seldom cried.
Becoming a parent, however, was a massive wake-up call for someone who had always felt secure in their place in life. When my newborn son was placed in my arms, small and fragrant, my self-assurance vanished. What was happening? I was the adult now? This was a startling realization.
Despite being a functioning adult in most aspects of life—married, employed, with a mortgage and a dog—I truly didn’t feel like an adult until I became responsible for that tiny human. The weight of his vulnerability terrified me; it was my duty to ensure his survival. Suddenly, everything revolved around him, and I understood that it would always be that way.
There was plenty of crying—mine, his, and sometimes more of mine. “How could a baby never cry?” I lamented to my mom one evening over the phone, convinced she had deceived me. “Well, you might have cried occasionally,” she replied gently, likely to spare my feelings.
As my son matured into a toddler and then started school, life didn’t become any easier. Adding a daughter to the mix only intensified the challenges. I had to adapt quickly. I learned to juggle cooking meals for a family while cradling a baby, often rushing out the door without even glancing in the mirror. I was someone’s mom now, a role that came with the responsibility of feeding, clothing, and nurturing my children while imparting life lessons along the way.
My kids showed remarkable patience as I navigated this new chapter. They would stroke my hand soothingly while I shed tears over charred toast. They would present me with haphazardly cut-out hearts to reassure me that I was managing to be the mom they needed. With every sticky hug, they reminded me that I didn’t have to be perfect, just that I had to try—for them.
I’m still on this journey of growth. Uncertainties abound in parenting; I often find myself at a loss when my children bring home poor grades, roll their eyes, or let out exclamations like “Oh my God!” in front of their grandparents. The process of parenting—and growing—is complex, messy, and sometimes overwhelming. It feels like I’m making up for all the crying I didn’t do in my pampered childhood.
Yet, when I take their faces in my hands and say, “You’re an amazing child. Thank you for choosing me as your mom,” I hope they feel as cherished and wanted as I always did. I can almost feel my mother’s arms around me, never letting me down, and I’m slowly finding my way, embracing the responsibilities of adulthood.
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In summary, my transition from a coddled child to a responsible parent has been a journey filled with tears, learning, and growth. Though I often feel uncertain, I strive to ensure my children know they are loved and wanted, just as I always felt.