Growing up as part of a big family, I had few illusions about the difficulty of parenting when my husband and I became parents nearly four years ago. I knew there would be plenty of ups and downs. Sleepless nights countered with days of discovery and laughter. Power struggles, boo boos, and broken hearts coupled with hugs, success stories, and new experiences. I even knew that the job would bring a new definition to the word anxiety for me, but I was not prepared for the extent it would reach in a short period of time.
Now I am usually convinced that I am totally screwing something up, and overanalyze nearly every decision. If we spend several days in a row indoors or running errands, I worry that he isn’t getting enough exercise. I wonder if his diet can truly be described as varied when there are only about five types of fruits and vegetables that he will eat. I even worry about our decision to send him to preschool, even though we researched it thoroughly, the teachers are wonderful, and he absolutely loves it. Sometimes I worry that we are spoiling him, while others I think I expect too much from him too soon. I wonder if he gets enough sleep at night or if he is making friends at school.
In the end, there are no real answers to my questions. With the exception of nutritional requirements, there are no quantifiable measures of parenting success. For now, I must console myself that the majority of the time he is happy, independent, and kind. He is equally happy learning in the classroom as he is running and climbing on the playground. Once in a while, we even convince him to try new things. I worry about these things because I care, and that probably is half the battle when it comes to the things he needs from me. For the rest, I pray for guidance and forgiveness, because I can never be the ‘perfect’ mother, whatever that is.
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