On Parenting: The Gratitude and Grief of Raising Children
Occasionally, I mourn the loss of my children's childhood. I know that it seems premature to grieve for something that is not already gone, but childhood is so fleeting. And, they change so much so fast.
There are evenings when I am performing our nighttime rituals, the time in which I have one-on-one with each of my two children, that I am brought to tears. I am not sad... exactly. Sadness rarely makes me cry. I am overwhelmed... by the gratitude of getting to do this and by grief that soon there will be a time when I don't get to do this anymore. When I am overwhelmed by these feelings, I think, is it possible that other parents feel this way? I mean, it seems... so, personal. Is it actually... universal?
How did I get to be so lucky as to have these two children? Not any two children, but these in particular that seem so right for me to love, to nurture, to mother, to help along their journey.
Do they know how perfect they are for me? Do they think I am perfect for them?
I suppose that is the confusion that parenthood brings... the gratitude for being lucky enough to be a parent, and the grief in knowing that every day we are losing some part of it.
How can I be a strong, healthy, independent, loving, role-model, when these two people who are not even as big as me (although one is, almost), can so easily bring me to my knees? How can the people I need to be the strongest for, make me feel at my most vulnerable?
I know other parents feel this gratitude, and this vulnerability. I know, in my heart, that this feeling is universal. It is strange though, because although it is universal, it can be isolating in its feeling so personal - like no one else has experienced this same thing, this same way.
I suppose love is like that. All love. When you love someone more than you love yourself, how can it be anything but personal? Yet, it is a sentiment still felt by millions of other people. And yet again, it is never the same... just as my love for my son is not the same as my love for my daughter. I love them both, but the love is different - because they are different.
Perhaps these feelings of gratitude and of grief are what allows us to be caring parents. They allow us to believe we are the only ones to ever feel this way - because we are, the only ones to feel this exact way about our own children, and so we care for them like no one else would. Too, these same feelings can allow us to be caring and supportive of other parents. We can look around, and reach out to others, because they have felt something similar. We do not have to feel alone in our fear... in our uncertainty... in our doubt... in our vulnerability. We are not alone in loving our children, nor are we alone in the loss of their childhood.
2011 and 2015
There are evenings when I am performing our nighttime rituals, the time in which I have one-on-one with each of my two children, that I am brought to tears. I am not sad... exactly. Sadness rarely makes me cry. I am overwhelmed... by the gratitude of getting to do this and by grief that soon there will be a time when I don't get to do this anymore. When I am overwhelmed by these feelings, I think, is it possible that other parents feel this way? I mean, it seems... so, personal. Is it actually... universal?
How did I get to be so lucky as to have these two children? Not any two children, but these in particular that seem so right for me to love, to nurture, to mother, to help along their journey.
Do they know how perfect they are for me? Do they think I am perfect for them?
I suppose that is the confusion that parenthood brings... the gratitude for being lucky enough to be a parent, and the grief in knowing that every day we are losing some part of it.
How can I be a strong, healthy, independent, loving, role-model, when these two people who are not even as big as me (although one is, almost), can so easily bring me to my knees? How can the people I need to be the strongest for, make me feel at my most vulnerable?
I know other parents feel this gratitude, and this vulnerability. I know, in my heart, that this feeling is universal. It is strange though, because although it is universal, it can be isolating in its feeling so personal - like no one else has experienced this same thing, this same way.
I suppose love is like that. All love. When you love someone more than you love yourself, how can it be anything but personal? Yet, it is a sentiment still felt by millions of other people. And yet again, it is never the same... just as my love for my son is not the same as my love for my daughter. I love them both, but the love is different - because they are different.
Perhaps these feelings of gratitude and of grief are what allows us to be caring parents. They allow us to believe we are the only ones to ever feel this way - because we are, the only ones to feel this exact way about our own children, and so we care for them like no one else would. Too, these same feelings can allow us to be caring and supportive of other parents. We can look around, and reach out to others, because they have felt something similar. We do not have to feel alone in our fear... in our uncertainty... in our doubt... in our vulnerability. We are not alone in loving our children, nor are we alone in the loss of their childhood.
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