the crushing weight of parenthood

and how I felt like a terrible mom last night

I’ve had this phrase in my head and I never truly understood before becoming a parent. The phrase is: “the crushing weight of parenthood.” Before becoming a parent, this phrase seemed so much about the nuts and bolts of taking care of a child. It sounded like bills and college funds and education and what kinds of values you might want to instill in them. Now I know it’s so much more than that. For me, it’s this stultifying feeling I get. A pit in my stomach. It’s the feeling when I wonder what she’ll tell others her childhood was like when she’s all grown up. I wonder what pain is on the horizon for her. And what I will do to undeniably fuck this whole parenting thing up.

My daughter turned 3 in September and I’ve had multiple friends tell me that age 3 has been harder for them than age 2. I guess it’s too soon to tell exactly what this age is like, but her evening tantrums these days are quite literally bringing me to my edges.

Last night it was the same song and dance of recent tantrums which can only be summed up as “I want mommy to do it.” But my husband, James, and I take equal caretaking roles when it comes to our daughter. So her bath time and her bedtime ritual is something we all take part in and dad performs tasks (hair brushing, teeth brushing, jammies, etc) as much as mom. But recently there’s no amount of prep work, choice giving and boundary work we can do before our evening begins because bath time hits and my daughter is in a rage.

My daughter. A tiny, writhing, swirling muscle of fury. Her little eyes bore into mine and her gaze darkens as she screams, “NO!” in our faces. She twists and she yells and she hits and she kicks. Gigantic tears roll down her cheeks. There are nights we can perform our caretaking duties and find ways to co-regulate with her so that she eventually comes out on the other side of the tantrum, and then there are nights like last night. These nights are just destined to be chaotic and hard.

Last night, the despair and fury on my daughter’s face did something to me. It probably most simply sent me into a state of disregulation and sensory overwhelm (I clearly had reached my limit), but her face in its despair singed into my soul and burned into my memory. My little girl. How my heart ached seeing her in such psychological turmoil. I logically knew she was safe, but there's something about seeing your child that upset that just impacts you.

When I think about her despair, while fleeting given the scenario last night (a warm and cozy bed was always on the horizon for her, promising her sleep and respite) I can’t help but imagine the true and impactful despair she will feel in her life. When will someone in her life hurt her? Will she recover? Who will break her heart? What if I’m not setting her up for success? What if I’m doing it all wrong? Why can’t I help her in these moments when there’s so much despair?

Cooler minds might chalk up last night to a rough night parenting a toddler and have that be that. And sometimes I can do that. But other times, these events spark this deep and real heaviness and fear, because I know that life is full of pain. I know, too, that it’s not useful to protect her or imagine her a world where nothing negative ever befalls her (challenges are the spice of life after all). I won't deny her the opportunity for pain. But my mama heart sometimes can’t unsee my tiny, perfect daughter in the depths of sadness without thinking, “but how are we supposed to do this?” “This” being the weight of parenthood. The weight of shaping a life. It’s enough to make me want to get back and bed and pull the sheets over my head.

Luckily, like every morning, the sun came up and as I opened her door her tiny voice rang through the silence and she shouted, “Mommy!” Followed by an enthusiastic giggle. I felt myself smile knowing that we got to do it all over again despite the weight of it all.