Morning always follows night

And other things to remember when parenting feels hard

Last week was a fun combination of performance week for M, week three of only one parent able to ambulate and drive (me), and a fairly run-of-the-mill cold that left me thinking about sleeping whenever my brain had a spare moment. This particular combo meant that I didn’t have much more than 15-30 minutes at a time without something or someone needing my attention. I felt pressured and hurried and frazzled and sure I was going to miss something important (secondary to the brain fog from the cold) all while sneezing and feeling sluggish and sleepy. It was a familiar feeling, but admittedly, one I hadn’t really had since before COVID.

And as I started thinking about it, while walking the dog or driving to pick up or drop off one of my children, I realized that this is how I felt *most* of the time pre-COVID. Life was so much busier then. I remember the pressure I would feel trying to leave work as soon as I could, getting to my car quickly without seeming too rude when colleagues said hello in the hallways, and trying to miss traffic so I could pick kids up and take them to rehearsals or practices or lessons. I remember being so frustrated when soccer practice got scheduled at 4:30 pm, because how would either of us manage to get home, pick up children, get the soccer player changed, water bottle filled, and then on to the field by 4:30 pm? Or when there were open houses or concerts or events at the school at 6 pm on Thursday nights. Thursdays, I was supposed to be at work until 7:30/8 pm to make up for the days I left early. So getting out early to head to the school was always hard. I can’t remember how we managed to fit dinner in to our schedules, things seemed so busy. And yet, somehow, I kept it all together and forgot less than I do now.

When the boys were little, it seemed that someone had a cold or an ear infection or a rash or fever or something that kept them home from daycare or school every other week of the fall and winter. The scramble, the worry about calling out of work again. It was visceral, the anxiety I would feel about missing work, about how long the child would be sick. I would have to remind myself once the call to work was made, that I needed to let the anxiety go and focus on my sick child. And then, when I came down with the cold a few days later, I can feel even now that utter exhaustion of trying to do everything while sick. I don’t know how we managed, with no family to call for help. And while we have lovely neighbors and friends, everyone was in the same boat of trying to raise small children while working. It would only occur to me to contact them in emergencies. Like when L broke his wrist and six hours later, I was in an ambulance with him being transferred from the local hospital to Boston Children’s Hospital. And D found places for the other two boys to spend the night so he could come down and be with L and me while they put L to sleep and manually set his wrist before casting it. People always came through for us if we asked. But we just didn’t ask that often because we knew everyone else was scrambling just as much as we were.

These days—when the 16 year old can go from seemingly engaging in a nice conversation to storming off, saying as he leaves the room that this is why he doesn’t talk to us, because we are so annoying, or the 14 year old gets past hungry and refuses every possible offer of food, all the while getting hangrier and hangrier—it can be easy to forget the hard times from the past 19 years. When I tear up because I worry a little too much that L will storm off to college and the kindness and sensitivity and equanimity he showed even as a young boy will be something I don’t see again, it is easier to remember the joy on his face as he was running down the soccer field or laughing with his friends. When I worry that Z’s transition back to college life hasn’t been as smooth as his transition into college was, that he isn’t reconnecting with friends in the way he had hoped, it is easier to recall his scratchy little voice on the playground going up to another child and saying, “Hi, I’m Z. What’s your name? Want to go down the slide?” When I feel a sense of failure that M’s shyness and anxiety were amplified by COVID, that I haven’t done enough to try and get him out into the world more, it is easier to remember that friends called him Smiles for the first four or five years of his life because he seemed to never cry or get upset.

But of course it wasn’t all easy. A lot of it was really, really hard. And it is only now, as the sweetness of those small boys hardens into the moodiness of teens and the absence of a college student that I can find all those simple moments of joy and love that was so easily given and received. When their eyes got big and sparkled when they saw something on the kitchen island for Valentine’s Day. Instead of yesterday’s complete and deliberate disregard of the cards I probably should’ve known better than to spend time on. Not a word about the chocolates that last year brought thank yous and exclamations of delight.

I know, I know, I know that it is just being teenagers. And M had caught the cold that L gifted to me last week.

But sometimes, I just don’t have the buffer to let it bead off of me, like oil on teflon. I can do it most of the time, but yesterday, it just broke me. And all the worries, all the feelings that I haven’t done enough, that I have somehow failed to provide them with the tools they need to make it in this sad and angry world, well they welled up and out my eyes. For long enough to make my eyes puffy, the skin under my eyes sting from tears.

It will be fine.

And today, I already feel better and a little more repaired.

But I think it’s important to acknowledge that parenting is so very hard. We put all of our selves, our hearts, our love, our care into these children. In the beginning, they mirror back that love and they light up when we enter the room. It is magical, the way your little one delights in your presence. And now, all these years later, it’s like they take that joy and spit it back in your face. They push and push to make sure that even all their ugliest feelings and impulses won’t dampen the way that you light up when they enter the room. Because being a teenager is the most uncertain and insecure time they’ve experienced.

And so, I’ll keep making the sappy Valentines. I’ll keep trying to let the insults bead off. I will reflect back the beautiful, kind, loving boys I know are still in there when I see them. I’ll try and see those sweet little faces that hadn’t learned that life can be hard and cruel and unfair under the teenager scowls.

I’ll remember that morning always follows night,

spring always follows winter,

love always remains.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please share it with friends!