Late-night thoughts on parenting after a taxing, too-long day:
You grow up hearing that parenting is the hardest job in the world. Then you decide, “Well how hard could it be?” and you decide to try it for yourself. And you get to start out with this cute little baby, and sure it’s hard and he cries a lot and sleeps at the wrong time of day, but he really is cute and he seems to think you’re pretty amazing, so you decide this is so wonderful that you’ll have another. And it gets a lot harder because the needs seem to have tripled instead of just doubled, but you’re still managing and having a reasonably good time. Then one day you become arrogant and foolish enough to believe that you really know what you’re doing and that you’re actually good at this, and so you keep going and end up finding yourself with four. You’re exhausted and crabby and overwhelmed, but you have big dreams and a family mission statement that get you out of bed every day to face a new challenge, to teach your great lessons, to impart your great wisdom. And you do this day after day after day after day, only to wonder if anyone at all is listening to you and is there some great conspiracy among them that keeps them from getting the dirty clothes in the laundry basket and the clean ones in the drawer? And no matter how much you threaten, discipline, reward, reason, plead, the same ugly character issues keep popping up again and again, which only serves to remind you of your own ugly character issues, thank you very much. And even though you love spending time with each of them one on one and you see new things about them each time and you finally catch a glimpse of some long-hoped-for maturity, it disappears the minute they’re all together again, and besides those days are very few and very far between because you’re stretched so thin and time goes so quickly. And why is it that no matter how much you preach grace as the highest value in your home and despite the fact that your children have collectively memorized more verses than a room full of chanting monks, they can still be so rude, unkind, and downright awful to one another? And it makes you understand the deprivation of man (and women and children) more than any childless seminary student ever could. And when you finally get to the point where you can get in the car without someone crying about something, you find that your car is now full of pouty preteens who didn’t get their way last Tuesday and are still holding a grudge. And though you say you’ll never eat dinner in front of the TV, you do, and though you passionately crusade against entitlement culture, you find its most articulate disciples sitting at your own table demanding more dessert. And though deep down in your heart of hearts you don’t want to be the mother who screeches at her children for going out of the house with uncombed hair, you become that anyway, in spite of yourself, because no matter how vehemently you deny it, you really do seem to care what other people think of your family. And you keep thinking, “But I have the easy kids—the ones with no recurrent illnesses, no learning disabilities, no ADHD or attachment disorder. So why doesn’t this feel easier?” Then you remember that thing about parenting being the hardest job in the world and you agree and you end up feeling like you’re failing a good amount of the time. But then you get their report cards that praise their character just as much as their school performance, or some random parent sends you a message commending some deed they saw committed by the child you’d almost given up on, and tears come to your eyes and you thank God and you find the strength to get up one more morning, to pick up one more dirty sock from the floor, to give out one more consequence in hopes that someone is learning something from it, to give one more hug, to be available for one more conversation that you hope and pray will by some miracle lead to some life-altering growth in this young life that has been entrusted to your care.
