Parental glitches
As a small child, I thought all my friends had the cool parents. I saw them in the highlights, when things went well, in the happy moments.
My own parents lived with me through it all, good and bad, and it was easy to pick apart the negative.
I was an amazing parent until I had kids.
I knew everything about raising little children and happily doled out advice until one of them came my way. The best advice I knew also came from others without children. We were in a club of know-it-alls, and we had it figured out.
That’s not to say being a parent is the only way to know how to parent. I had a teacher in high school who raised hundreds of kids over decades. She never had one of her own, but she pledged her time, energy, sweat, and tears to caring for them. She was a great one.
With that said, I was a self-professed amazing version of that class of human until I had a chance to prove it.
Then along came our son, and later our daughter. I remember feeling genuine shock at being able to walk out of the hospital with a tiny bundle of curious, tired, crying energy—and just being allowed to pull into the Taco Bell drive-through for food.
I’d always known I wanted kids and couldn’t wait for the day. But having one, seeing our son, changed me. In an instant, I went from being in the room with the love of my life, my partner through it all, to suddenly having a third person there—and feeling my heart grow to hold more love than I thought possible. Funny thing about love: it increases with sharing.
I knew that kid would be one of the most important people in my life, and I couldn’t wait to see what we’d be able to do together.
Now he’s 13, and our daughter is 9. I can’t believe how fast the years have gone. I blink and remember a dozen summers. Field trips galore, sick days, snow days (though they’re getting fewer and fewer, I wish COVID hadn’t ruined us for at-home schoolwork), school events, birthday parties, and a million other wonderful things have filled the ensuing years.
I’m not the good parent I thought I’d be before I had the opportunity. I had some ethereal, perfected, Von Trapp-esque view of orderly robots eating their peas on time and following in my shadow without reserve.
What I got instead was something better than I could ever imagine. Two humans who have their own thoughts, feelings, dreams, lives, and perspectives, and who are willing to share those with us, let us into their worlds, and trust us with their hopes.
Instead of forcing down peas, we started making a pea-based protein shake. Literally, for the last 11 years, my son has probably had at least one shake every day we’re home.
Instead of demanding that kids follow and not be heard, we got two humans who are kind, respectful, and caring, who look out for others; who share their emotions and frustrations when they’re unsure, and who constantly make the world a better place for having been in it.
I look back at my own parents and my previous frustrations with their imperfections.
Then I look back further and learn the stories of what their parents had to wrestle with.
I look back even further—I’m blessed to still have a great-grandmother who is 107 years old—and see the unique challenges they faced.
I realize that judging them against perfection is useless. Instead, we can recognize each generation of parents for what they are: people glitching along and trying to find a way forward.
That’s not to say there aren’t people who are just bad at it. Some folks should not be parents, and some kids deserve far better than what they’re given.
I’m speaking instead of the well-meaning ones: those who devote their time and energy to raising these little ones, who make mistakes but keep trying. Those I appreciate, and those I seek to emulate in my own life.
That's what I'm striving to be, even now, as I know far less than when I started—and am excited to learn more.
So thanks, Mom. You made a mess of it, just like me. I hope my kids make their own messes, glitch along the way, and continue to make the world a better place for having been in it.