Being the parent

You know that thing where you birth a child, love them with every fiber of your being, rearrange your life around them, see to their every physical and emotional need, and then they hit the age of three and don’t listen to a single word you say?  Yeah, that.  Of course I’m exaggerating.  Our son listens to some things we say.  In fact, his hearing becomes particularly acute when he hears the words “ice cream” or “library.”  But when we’re asking him to complete a task (go potty, get ready for bed, clean up your toys, etc.), he sometimes likes to exert his independence.  It’s frustrating.  Beyond frustrating – it’s absolutely maddening.  And since I’m a human with selfish tendencies and a need to be recognized, it also makes me sad and a little indignant – sometimes to the point where I have to bite my tongue and push aside the childish urge to scream, “Don’t you realize what I do for you?!  You’re WELCOME!”

But I don’t get to say that.  I don’t get to throw the tantrum, because instead I get the joyful task of being the parent.  “Being the parent” in these cases means essentially that you get the crappy job of making everyone cry – yes, yourself included.  Tonight we had a brawl over the bedtime routine.  After consistent pushback on my requests to go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, and get his pajamas on, I introduced a consequence: no bedtime stories.  Consequences are so easy to throw out there, and it’s great when they create an immediate response.  However, I’ve noticed the older my son gets the more he likes to try and call our bluff.  Dammit. 

Following through on consequences is unbelievably hard.  And I realize now that parents really do not enjoy doing so – as a matter of fact, I absolutely hate it.  I would much rather a threat correct the situation without actually having to be enacted.  But when my son continued to push me, I had to follow through.  There would be no stories tonight.  What he doesn’t comprehend (and likely won’t until he has his own children) is this news hit me as hard as it did him.  I love story time with him, and I hate seeing him cry.  Both of those things were ruined when I had to be the parent.  This just further adds to my frustration because if he had listened in the first place, we’d all be happy and snuggling in his bed and having that perfect family moment that I assumed happened in households every night.

As I sat in the room across the hall, rocking the baby to sleep to the sounds of my three-year-old’s cries, tears streamed down my own face.  Tears because he was crying, because I felt guilty, because I assumed he would think I don’t love him, because I thought he would hate me, and because I realized looking down at the sweet angel falling asleep in my arms that we would be in this same place in three more years.  And for the umpteenth time I thought, “Being the parent is freaking hard.”

In the process of getting over my drama, I was able to find some comfort in reflecting on my own childhood.  I kept thinking I don’t remember it being like this.  I don’t remember fighting my parents and crying when I didn’t get my way.  After I reluctantly refused the conclusion that I must have been some sort of perfect child I realized the likely truth – I don’t remember that stuff because it is overshadowed by the good.  When I think back to bedtime as a child, I remember that my parents read to me, and I felt safe and loved.  I’m sure we had nights like mine tonight, but they’re not top of mind for me.  I worry so much about breaking my child by making him angry, but the reality is he likely won’t remember this in thirty years (or tomorrow morning for that matter).  What seems like a big deal to me is just another learning experience for him.  And if I want him to turn out to be a decent, respectful human being, he has to understand boundaries.

Enter the parent (sigh).  I’m learning more and more it can be a thankless and exhausting job, but it’s what we signed up for, right?  I’ll keep pushing through these frustrating experiences one at a time, trying to remind myself for every awful night with no bedtime stories there are countless memories to be made of snuggles in a twin bed surrounded by stuffed animals.  Those are the nights I live for.