I used to consider myself a pretty laid-back mom. I ended breastfeeding my son when he was just three weeks old, even after our pediatrician detailed the numerous advantages of breast milk for an infant’s immune system and overall development. I inadvertently “Ferberized” my son at six weeks old one night when I forgot to turn on the baby monitor and missed his cries from a different floor of our home. When he was five months old, he fell off the changing table under my watch one evening after bath time. After a quick visual and auditory inspection, I deemed him fine; he even laughed that night—possibly at me!
My baby daughter never had a consistent afternoon nap. I was too busy to worry about her napping schedule as she would be carted around town with me or our babysitter to pick up my son or take walks in her stroller to get some fresh air, clear my mind, and sometimes chat with a friend on the phone. I once took her to my son’s nursery school play in a wet diaper and without socks in the dead of winter, having forgotten to pack extras. She sat on my lap, smiling throughout the performance, completely unfazed.
During those early days of motherhood, my worries were not centered on my children; they were focused on my mother, who was in the final months of her long battle with cancer when my son was born. I glided through my son’s pediatric appointments, signing immunization papers without a second thought, while taking extensive notes at my mother’s health visits, trying desperately to grasp her treatment options. Sadly, I could do nothing to save her. She passed away when my son was just nine months old.
In hindsight, the early stages of parenting seemed effortless to me. Perhaps my preoccupation with my mother’s illness played a significant role in this perception. I watched in amazement as other mothers stressed over feeding schedules, bedtime routines, and baby classes. I had other priorities; I needed to cherish my mother’s memory, prepare meals for my widowed father, host family gatherings, and maintain my friendships, which became increasingly vital after losing my mom. All while balancing my professional life with my husband.
Fast forward to today, 15 years since I stopped breastfeeding and unintentionally Ferberized my child. I no longer see myself as that calm mother. My worries have shifted from toddler troubles to the complexities of raising older kids. I often find myself questioning whether I’ve made the right choices regarding their education, whether I’ve equipped them to make sound decisions independently, and if I’m striking the right balance between involvement and independence. When these worries creep in, I confide in friends, my husband, or my father, expressing my fear of messing things up. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask for, does it?
Yet, I remind myself of how far my children have come. My son, who only received three weeks of breast milk, has no allergies and has slept soundly through the night since that fateful incident with the baby monitor. His fall from the changing table hasn’t hindered his enthusiasm for sports or his calm demeanor. My daughter, brimming with energy, has mostly skipped naps, except for the rare long car rides home. Now, she happily accompanies me on walks and lunch dates, and while she’s grown too big to sit on my lap during plays, she remains delightful company.
Perhaps my initial hands-off approach has paid off, or maybe my children are simply unfolding into who they were meant to be. Regardless, I find that being a relaxed parent is often more challenging than it appears, and I genuinely want to ensure I don’t mess up my kids. That’s all I hope for.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the author’s transition from a relaxed parenting approach during early motherhood, influenced by her mother’s illness, to a more anxious perspective as her children grew. It underscores the complexities of parenting and the balance between involvement and independence, while also addressing the unexpected outcomes of a less conventional parenting style.