At a birthday celebration for a one-year-old, surrounded by friends from my university days, I was caught off guard when one of them asked, “How are you doing?”
“It’s really tough,” I found myself responding, my voice trembling as tears began to form. “I just can’t seem to make my baby happy.”
He raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his expression. “It’s not your responsibility to make him happy,” he replied.
Internally, I scoffed at my childfree friend. What could he possibly understand? Without children of his own, how could he grasp the weight of such a responsibility?
Given the years I had spent yearning to become a mother, compounded by countless fertility treatments, how could I not feel accountable for my four-month-old’s joy? Perhaps it stemmed from the barrage of parenting books I had encountered, each promising happiness: The Happiest Baby on the Block, Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, and Brain Rules for Baby: How to Raise a Smart and Happy Child from Zero to Five. Or maybe it was the pervasive American fixation on happiness that lingered in my mind.
In her 2014 book, All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenting, Jennifer Senior notes that today’s parents often grapple with their roles. Many traditional responsibilities have been delegated elsewhere: schools teach math and history, doctors handle medical care, and the agricultural sector provides food. What significance remains for modern parents?
As a first-time mom to a particularly fussy baby, I was still trying to carve out the essence of motherhood. The most straightforward aim I could identify was to ensure my son’s happiness.
Describing my son with words like colicky and spirited felt all too accurate. Experts claim that colic typically subsides after three months, but my son clearly didn’t read the memo, as he continued to cry for a half-hour daily until he was 15 months old. He disliked being placed in his car seat yet equally loathed being taken out of it; he resisted diaper changes and face washes, all while demanding to be held, only to wail in my arms. Although he occasionally smiled and laughed, overall, he didn’t seem particularly content. As a result, I found myself feeling equally miserable.
Then, at eight months old, I experienced my first realization that my childless friend might have been onto something. My son was born with blocked tear ducts that required a doctor to perform a procedure involving stainless steel rods—a terrifying experience for him. I wasn’t allowed to be present during the procedure, but his screams and the way he clung to me upon our reunion left me filled with regret.
“How did you ensure he wouldn’t be traumatized for life?” my mother asked during our phone conversation. Her words only intensified my guilt; I had failed to shield my son from this ordeal.
During a weekly mothers’ group facilitated by a therapist, I poured out my feelings of guilt and sadness about the procedure. “A parent’s role isn’t to shield their child from negative experiences and emotions,” the therapist explained. “It’s to guide them through these challenges, enabling them to navigate difficult feelings on their own.”
Suddenly, clarity struck. My purpose as a mother shifted from simply eliminating my son’s tears to fostering resilience—a concept gaining traction in parenting and psychology circles. This approach transformed my parenting style and my overall mental well-being.
By focusing on instilling resilience in my son, I learned to navigate his transition into toddlerhood. I began teaching him that he wouldn’t always get his way and that life involves tasks we might not enjoy—like diaper changes or doctor visits.
This new perspective also allowed me to prioritize my own needs. While my son might have wanted me to engage with him constantly, I needed to carve out time to eat my meal in peace. I even gathered the strength to enroll him in part-time daycare, supporting him through the separation anxiety that arose, which ultimately gave me the space to pursue my passion for environmental communications. Having just two days weekly to focus on my writing left me rejuvenated and more patient with him.
I slowly began to feel like a whole person again, a confident mother teaching her son valuable life lessons about resilience. My happiness grew, even if my son wasn’t always “The Happiest Toddler on the Block.”
One morning, while driving home from grocery shopping when he was two, he asked, “Mommy, Daddy was a boy and now he a man?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” I answered.
“And I a boy now and then I be a man?” he continued.
“Yes, that’s right,” I confirmed.
“Ahhh, I don’t want to be a man,” he complained. “I want to be a boy forever!”
“Why do you want to be a little boy forever?” I inquired.
“Because I love it,” he replied.
It turned out that, despite my worries, my cranky little boy was indeed happy—likely because I was beginning to find my own happiness again.
In summary, releasing the weight of my child’s constant happiness allowed me to discover my own joy as a parent. By focusing on resilience instead of unattainable perfection, I nurtured both my son and myself, ultimately leading to a more fulfilling parenting experience.