I’m Not Cut Out For It.
Parenting, that is. I’m not cut out for it. Maybe you aren’t either. Or maybe you just wonder sometimes, briefly hearing your soul speak the words before silencing them in shame.
We aren’t wrong, you know. I don’t think any of us are cut out for “it”. Parenting is a loaded word and an even more loaded vocation, and if I can just brain dump for a moment you can glimpse an inner dialogue that will, if I’m not standing guard at my fortress of self-worth, slowly tear into my joy without my knowledge or awareness. Maybe you’ve thought these things, too. Maybe you actually believe them.
Parents should:
Always be on time. Even if someone fills a diaper at the last minute. You really should have been ready 15 minutes early to prepare for that inevitability. Never mind that 15 minutes ago your babe was still getting desperately needed sleep so they could be reasonably comfortable at the thing to which you’re now late.
Never lose their temper. Even if that toy wouldn’t have broken if your child had listened one of the first seventy-three times you warned them it could break. Even if you haven’t slept in three days. Even if you can’t believe you are spending another minute of your day trying to talk a toddler down from the ledge of totally unacceptable (to them) footwear.
Have empty hampers and clean sinks. Because how hard can it be? I mean if you just run one load of laundry a day and do the dishes as they come then how could anything ever pile up? How? HOW? (Actually, I think I know how. It has something to do with something I was supposed to learn in Calculus involving the infinity symbol and some wacky bell curves.)
Get “yourself” back. Sure, as mothers we have actual cells in our bodies that were never there before we had children. Sure, hormones are real and the chemicals pulsing through our veins that scream out to smell our baby’s head are undeniable. But, I mean, hold onto who you were and all of that because for some reason society sees this original version of you as more acceptable than the person you became when you CREATED AND SHELTERED AN ENTIRELY NEW HUMAN BEING WHO HAS NEVER EXISTED BEFORE AND CAN NEVER EXIST AGAIN. Seriously though, if you let your hobbies take a backseat for a second you’re doing everyone, including yourself and your child, a huge disservice.
Sure, we know these aren’t realistic parenting goals. We KNOW that. But we listen anyway, and sometimes even let these ideas melt into our own ideas of parenting, and before we know it we are staring at the thirtieth mess of the hour or the fourth eye roll of the day and admitting to ourselves that we aren’t cut out for it.
So go ahead and say it. Mean it. Because the more I look for truth, the more I find that I, too, am not cut out for “it”.
I’m not cut out for the pressure of being certain places at certain times dressed to a certain social code with all my little people pleasantly trailing behind me, bows in tact and faces free of dirt.
I’m not cut out for endless and forced joy. I really love life, I delight in most moments, but I also feel disappointments, anger, frustration, and sadness. I haven’t found the perfect way to be genuine in those emotions while in the presence of little ones who may be confused about why I feel these things.
I’m not cut out for staying on top of things. Laundry, dishes, cleaning, windows, storage…I could spend a full day on each and not reach the end of the list. In fact, when I do get to spend dedicated time on these household tasks, the list multiplies. Now, actually doing these chores – there is often great joy and gratitude in the action, because I am taking care of the things that add value to my life. But jeepers, they overwhelm me sometimes.
I’m not cut out for being who I used to be, while shepherding new souls into who they were meant to be. It’s hard to admit that; the world tells me it’s martyrdom to change for my children and I sometimes mourn the girl with no cares and an entire planet to explore. It is easy to fall victim to the notion that my energy and interests and expectations should bounce back to their pre-child levels by the time my baby is that magical age of 12 weeks old, as though there is nothing noble about letting ourselves be changed to the core, about seeing the truth of our awesome smallness, about adjusting our orbit to circle a new and precious life.
It is really, really hard when I try to do “it” right.
But if I try to do them right, I can’t go wrong.
We are late because I give in to the request of “one more chapter!” or “one more dance!” (and also, the diaper. Always, the diaper). Their laundry is still in the hamper because we played one too many games of tag when warm weather wrestled out winter. The dishes are piled high because my oldest made a batch of “nutritious delicious”, which basically means she found one relatively healthy ingredient and combined it with icing and sprinkles, necessitating a minimum of six mixing bowls. And I am forever a changed person, unable and unwilling to “get myself back” because now that I have experienced the explosive and complete love for a child, I cannot pretend that my priorities are the same.
I will tell you how I fail at parenting. My kids will tell you why I’m the best mom ever. We will both be right. Because while “parenting” as a socially constructed verb in the 2020s in the United States is something I’m still learning how to do, being Mom to these souls is (literally) in my DNA. It is new and strange and overwhelming and never what I imagine it will be when I wake up each morning. It is messy. It is lovely. It is love.
So no, I’m not cut out for “it”.
But I was made for them.
