I hate to jinx it, but very recently my children have become easier, for want of a better word. They are five and two now, and are the best of friends. They play adorable games together which allows me to have cups of tea in peace. My five-year-old can wipe her own bottom (yay!), shower herself, and get her own snacks. My two-year-old is talking well now, and can tell us what he wants; while we still have tantrums, and the sight of him in restaurants still conjures up a mix of pity and terror from fellow diners, he can sit still for longer, have conversations, and is generally happy. At times, I am even that mother sitting and reading while her children colour or play quietly. (For about five minutes).
Proof that life has become a little bit more bearable is this.
I’m cooking again. Real cooking. Not throwing things hastily into the oven, churning out boring casseroles, or relying on good old spag bol. On weekends anyway, I feel remnants of the old me returning – the one who loved to cook elaborate meals, involving many ingredients, much simmering and sautéing and chopping, and the type that is celebrated with the clink of glasses at the dinner table and “Compliments to the chef!” I am able to do this mostly because my two-year-old has now been surgically extracted from my leg, and no longer needs to be in bed by 6:30pm.
This state of affairs sounds quite delicious, I know, to other parents who are still in struggle-town. I was there not long ago. I do not remember now what exactly made it so hard – the pain is all a blur. I do remember that it was freaking hard, and that I was miserable at times, and that I cried occasionally. I remember everything being a struggle with my toddler – each simple task of living like getting dressed and eating was an enormous and often physical and loud battle. I remember the 12 months or more of 5am wake-ups – of sitting on the couch in the dark with a wide-awake baby, the whole household asleep, wondering how on earth I was going to stay awake until 8:30pm. I remember being so tired at night my eyeballs felt like they were going to fall out of my head. I remember a lot of food on the floor.
And yet I worked and studied full-time, nine days a fortnight. Truth be told, going to work was an escape in many ways. Whenever I was tired, I reminded myself that being at home would have exhausted me just as much. Still, looking back, I don’t know I did it. I do remember making a pledge to connect and engage with my children to the fullest, despite the challenges, and to live these precious and exhausting years with more joy and less guilt. I do feel that I have done that. I have kicked mother guilt in the ass. And while I have trouble remembering the exact details of the pain, I remember the exquisite joys as though they were yesterday. I can taste and smell them; I can feel the little hands in mine still. These are etched in my memory.
I am not much different to any other parent. I do not have extraordinary challenges – just the everyday, mundane challenges of parenting small children while working. I do have flexibility, a reasonable salary (as a GP anyway, not as a student…) and find meaning in my work. But mostly, I coped because I took things one day at a time. (I had no choice really). And I know that new, different challenges are to come. But I want to pen some encouragement to every parent who is still in that dark, hazy time of raising small children. (Studies show that parents are generally as happy as compared to people without kids, except for those with preschool-aged children. These people are pretty unhappy and stressed). Perhaps you have the dreaded combination of two under two. Perhaps you have a ten-week-old, and have just been through the most difficult ten weeks of your life. Whatever the case may be, I want to say this to you, with all my heart.
Take things one day at a time.
But make a promise to do your best every day.
Some days, your best will disappoint you. That’s ok. Be kind to yourself. You’re just doing the best you can, and you’ve never done this before. Every phase makes you an absolute novice at parenting again. But tomorrow is another day.
Some days will be very dark. This just means you are right in the middle of the tunnel and the light cannot be seen yet. But if you keep moving forward, there is a light. It’s bright and very beautiful. It will make you cry tears of joy.
Every day, connect at least once with your children, and once with yourself, even if only for a moment before you shut your eyes at night. Be grateful at the end of the day, breathe, and start again tomorrow.
It’s ok to “lean out” during these years. It’s ok to say you’ve got too much on your plate right now. You have. It’s crazy. But it won’t last forever.
If the days are too dark, talk to someone straight away.
One day at a time, the days will roll excruciatingly slowly into weeks, and months, and then a year or two. You will look back and that cliché will escape your lips- “They are growing up too fast!” Stupid cliché. But it’s true.
But I know that seems far away now. I know how hard it can be. But don’t blink. Take it all in.
One day at a time. That’s all you need to do. The best is yet to come, but in some ways the best is with you right now. That’s the exquisite conundrum of parenting.
When you come out of that tunnel, I hope you come out with more joy, less guilt, and no regrets. And eventually you too will be stirring prawn bisque in the kitchen, glass of wine in hand, like me. (If that kind of thing floats your boat).