Parenthood
The difficulty of parenthood is just sort of implied, yet at the same time, it’s hard in a way you can’t really, truly understand until you actually have kids of your own. But single parenthood is hard in a way that’s explicitly stated on a regular basis. It’s the little sighs and sympathetic looks. It’s the “Wow that must be so hard for you”s and the “I can’t even imagine”s.
Having a baby so young meant I was extremely underprepared for the job. It also meant, in the early days, I put a lot of diapers on backward and made many frantic, middle-of-the-night calls to my mom, crying into the phone with one hand while I ripped my hair out with the other.
And just when I thought nothing was more challenging than having an infant, that infant turned into a toddler and suddenly he didn’t stay in one spot when I put him down somewhere, and he learned the word “no,” and I started spending all of my time chasing after him and picking up toys and babyproofing the house, but I still felt like I had no idea what was going on.
Everyone talks about how all parents feel like they don’t know what they’re doing, but could it really be this hard for everyone? And if so, then why do I feel like I’m the only one wrestling my kid into the car after dragging him kicking and screaming out of the grocery store?
I remember the first time another mom at the park asked me how old my son was when I started sleep training, and I just smiled like I knew wtf “sleep training” was supposed to be. Like he hasn’t just slept in my bed with me every single night since he was born. Like the crib I got at my baby shower isn’t still sitting unassembled in a box in my closet, three years later.
Because to me, parenting is turning on cartoons so I can hide in the bathroom and cry.
It’s sitting on the kitchen floor drinking wine out of a coffee cup because I’m bad at being an adult and don’t own wine glasses.
It’s not being above bribing him with chocolate chip cookies so that leaving the park doesn’t turn into a full-blown meltdown.
In some ways, I feel like I’ve come so far. But a lot of the time it feels like nothing has really changed at all. Like I’m the same kid who sat alone in a Wendy’s bathroom– foot tapping, hands shaking– waiting for the results to develop on a pregnancy test I had to steal from the 99-cent store. Like I’m trying my best, every single day, but always wondering if my best is ever really going to be good enough.
Single parenthood isn’t just twice the work, it’s twice the work without a break. No one to take turns with when your baby wakes up every two hours. No one to alternate preschool pickups. No one to take him to the park for half an hour so you can get a load of laundry done and take a shower. I haven’t showered with the bathroom door closed in three and a half years. There’s no one to help shoulder the burdens, but there’s also no one to share in the joy. No one to turn to and say, “Did you see that?” after his first smile, his first steps. No one to celebrate the little victories with, or to stay up and watch R-rated movies and eat ice cream on the couch with after finally–finally getting him down for the night.
When I see a dad throwing a little boy screaming and laughing into the air, or a happy couple walking down the street swinging a giggling toddler between them, the jealousy is unimaginable. Because they’re all just so damn happy. It makes me want to cry.
I remember this one time I was trying to wrestle our stroller out of the trunk of my car one-handed with my 18-month-old in the other. I looked to my right where, on the other side of the parking lot, a man twice my size was smoothly maneuvering a stroller out of his own car while a woman, presumably his wife, bounced a smiling baby on her own hip, looking totally at ease and annoyingly well-rested. It was like this happy, normal family just hollowed me out with an ice cream scooper. Like I was too young and too old all at the same time.
The isolation and loneliness can be intense. I’m not as patient or present as I want to be, as I could be, with just a tiny bit of help. And it’s so hard not to feel resentful about that. Sometimes I just wish I had someone there to tell me it’s okay, that I’m a great mom and I’m doing my best. That we can figure it out together.
The stress creeps in like an invasive species, putting down roots, inching its way up through my body, and choking off patience and rational thought. I think back to the darkness I walked through in high school and the anxiety and depression I thought I had under control. The effort I put into carefully cultivating my mental health into a garden bursting with tulips and marigolds, self-care and confidence and respect for myself, is suddenly overgrown with weeds: gnarled and thorny, twisting this way and that, suffocating my sunflowers and stripping me of my sanity. For every one I pull three more crop up in its place until my mind and body are chaotic, overrun, and out of control– and there’s nothing left but weeds; weeds, and dead flowers.
Anxiety is a constant buzzing inside my body, an itch inside my brain I can’t scratch. It feels like always wearing a sweater that’s two sizes too small. It sneaks up on me with the third screaming tantrum before 10 am and then what am I even supposed to do with that, when the panic grows inside me like an infection, multiplying in size until I can feel it vibrating inside my skull?
Depression is a wet blanket that wraps around my shoulders and constricts my breathing, clouding my mind and stiffening my joints. It drains the life force from my body like pulling the stopper in a bathtub, as I watch all the joy and warm, sudsy water slip away, between my fingers, down the drain. How am I supposed to take care of a toddler when I can’t even take care of myself? The dishes stack up in the sink and I can barely get off the couch to microwave him some chicken nuggets for dinner, and I know it’s not fair to just sit in the dark house all day with the TV on, but I just feel physically incapable of doing anything different.
“It’s a state of mind,” they say. “You can CHOOSE to be happy.” But can I? If I got to choose the way I felt, why would I choose this?
These bad feelings of mine are usually just visitors, though. They ebb and flow like the tide, sucking in and sweeping out in synch with the rise and fall of stress levels and sleep deprivation. Some days are good. Some days I go to bed at night thinking, “Man, I feel like I was a pretty good mom today.” Sometimes I’ll go weeks at a time where things feel solid, where we’re mostly on the same page and I feel as though I’ve just maybe gotten this parenting thing sort of figured out. But some days are not.
Some days it’s like my well of patience has long since run dry– like there’s nothing left of me to give and no way to refill it if I never have the chance to slow down and catch my breath. The anxiety of it walks its cold, creeping fingers up my spine to wrap a squeezing hand around my throat– and it gets even harder to breathe.
I’m constantly living with the guilt of not being good enough for him, of not knowing what I’m doing. Of blindly making choices and feeling like I’m always choosing wrong.
And then there’s this moment when you’re so tired and overwhelmed and it’s almost as though you can’t even remember what peace feels likes, and he looks up at you with those big green eyes, you’re eyes, and says, “You know what mama? I love you.” And you melt. A switch is flipped and the warmth and love rush in. Because despite the fact that it’s hard, all the time, and you don’t have friends or a life or even the briefest of moments to yourself anymore, being a parent is everything. It’s challenging and beautiful and rewarding and basically magical when you take the time to slow down and really think about it.
It’s going on collection walks and dragon hunts. Looking for lizards and roly-polies in the backyard. Making cookies. Watching Disney movies on the couch. The way he giggles when you tell him a joke he doesn’t understand but for some reason still thinks is funny. It’s the way he wants to do everything by himself now because he’s a big boy. It’s his imagination and creativity. It’s his empathy and kindness and curiosity. Sometimes I look at him and how incredible he is and think, “Huh. I guess I must have done something right.” And honestly, I know parental bias is real, but there is just no way everyone else’s kids are as cool as mine.
It’s so easy to look back and remember all the shiny, wonderful moments in the same way that it’s easy to forget to enjoy them in the present. I have to start each day by reminding myself to take a breath and take life as it comes. Prioritize what’s important. Accept that it’s not going to be easy, but it is so, so worth it. I want my son to be safe, happy, and healthy. I want him to feel secure in himself. Everything else is secondary, it’s just background noise. If I can’t get to the laundry or finish an essay for school, it’s okay. Take a breath. Life is beautiful.
Madeline Duncan is a junior at the University Of California, Davis. She’s an English major, minoring in Psychology, and loves to spend her free time reading and writing. She has an amazing tree-year-old little boy, so her other hobbies generally include watching Paw Patrol, playing with dinosaurs, and taking walks to the park.