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It’s December 2015, and suddenly, my entire existence revolves around our tiny premature baby, who weighs just four and a half pounds, nestled in her makeshift room—a breakfast nook cluttered with unpacked boxes in our new apartment. Each sound she makes, every little grimace, sends my nerves into a tailspin. I’m filled with anxiety for her and for myself; I worry I won’t connect with other parents and find myself longing for the life my husband and I once had. Everything shifts in a heartbeat.
“Don’t worry,” say the Mothers—the collective of mothers, from Facebook groups to my friends’ moms, and the older women I’ve met at work. “It gets easier. I promise.”
Fast forward to March 2019, and once again, everything changes in a heartbeat. We experience more joy and less stress this time around, yet the adjustment is still challenging. We try to keep our older daughter’s routine stable while bringing in a new sibling. The family dynamic shifts, and she questions why we can’t all read together at bedtime anymore. She wonders when her sister will recognize her. I can’t help but fret about the endless cycle of washing bibs.
But those reassuring Mothers are back again: “Two is much tougher than one, but it will get easier.” Now, they include actual friends who are also moms—companions to share laughs with in the preschool parking lot, even when I’ve forgotten how to fasten an infant car seat into a stroller.
In some respects, it does get easier. I sleep through the night now. We live in a home with real bedrooms and a supportive community. Our lives have structure, with routines, childcare, and even opportunities for date nights and mini getaways. My children have developed a bond and can express their affection for each other. I can show them love without constant worry.
Yet, I find myself telling new mothers the same thing. Just last weekend, I reassured a weary young woman at a beer garden, her sleeping newborn beside her. She watched me with my kids, and after she shared her 14-week-old’s sleep struggles, I felt compelled to say, “It gets easier, I promise.” In that moment, I wanted to lift her out of that newborn chaos and assure her that she would reclaim her sense of self.
However, the truth is, the promise of it getting easier feels somewhat empty. As my daughters, especially my soon-to-be kindergartener, grow older, I realize that the challenges we face now are far more complex than just potty training and sleep regressions. Our hurdles have evolved into logistical, intellectual, and emotional challenges.
Her interests are developing—thankfully! But I must pay closer attention to help her explore them. Activities suited for her age often conflict with my work schedule, so we need to be judicious about our choices. Some interests, like tennis and dance, require practice and confidence-building, which she can’t achieve alone. While not all of her assurance comes from me, a portion does. The same applies to her education. I might prefer to rush through bedtime because I just finished a work assignment and still need to prepare dinner, but I recognize the importance of taking the time to read a great book together, so I do it. Her growth is intertwined with my involvement; it would be naive to think otherwise.
Moreover, I notice her personality evolving—she’s testing boundaries. This summer at day camp, she moved up to a new age group with older girls and teenage counselors. At times, she can be rude and defiant. She’ll lock eyes with me and deliberately disregard my instructions. I know she’s just navigating her limits and is likely tired, but I dislike this new behavior. We’ve had to reconsider how we approach discipline, as the right course of action is often unclear.
As much as I want to enforce consequences, I also recognize she’s becoming more like me. I see her nervousness; she strives for perfection and is tough on herself when she makes mistakes. She poses questions far deeper than her years suggest. She craves attention yet also wants to retreat from it. These characteristics aren’t learned; they are simply who she is.
Most challenging of all, she’s observant—constantly watching. She notices my reactions and the way I interact with my husband. This realization weighs heavily on me: my daughters will model the women they aspire to be after me, or they won’t. The responsibility feels greater now, pushing me to set a positive example. I’m striving to be more generous, kind, and to embody a better version of myself for their sake.
Before long, Hazel will transition into her tween and teen years, handling her own needs, but her challenges will likely be more significant than just disliking our frozen meatballs. My ability to guide her will diminish, and I’ll need to trust that she’ll make the right choices when faced with difficult situations. Holding my breath during those moments will be far more taxing than what I’m currently experiencing.
I’ve noticed a pattern in my parenting journey: every time I think I can’t endure the latest challenge, it eventually resolves. A truce. Yet, just when life seems to settle into a rhythm, and I convince myself it has gotten easier, something new arises.
It gets tougher again.
Let’s stop telling new mothers that it gets easier. It’s an unfair promise for the most demanding job in the world. We simply become better equipped to handle their transformations.
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Summary:
The journey of parenthood doesn’t necessarily get easier over time; rather, parents become more adept at navigating the challenges that arise. Amidst the constant evolution of their children’s needs and behaviors, parents learn to adapt and grow, facing new complexities that go beyond early childhood hurdles. The emphasis should shift from the notion of an easier journey to the understanding that parents simply become more equipped to handle the ongoing changes.