Parenting

Becoming a parent is like learning to sight read a new piece of music. You've learned the principles of playing the instrument; you technically know what the notes and marks on the page mean. But you haven't heard it before, so you're unsure how it is supposed to sound.

In the early months, I was never the one doing the waking. My baby had no concept of sleeping through the night or that slumber was a desirable thing that Mommy wanted more of. Mommy was just always there, ready with a bottle of formula or a fresh diaper.

Anytime I get a glimpse of something I'm doing inadequately as a parent, I worry that the proverbial ship has sailed—the ship that carries a precious thing that influences my son's ability to succeed in life.

"Good parenting is hard; bad parenting is easy." I read that on Instagram the other day, and unfortunately it stuck in my head. I'm sure that my husband and I take the easy way out by failing to implement obvious consequences, and letting him eat ice cream and watch Goat every night.

Parents are supposed to be better at rising above it, setting an example for observant children who whine only because they haven't perfected better forms of expression. Unfortunately, setting a good example is only one of many imperatives that I juggle at any given time.

My little boy has written me more love notes than all my beaux combined. They end up buried in piles of stuff on my bedside table, or the top of my dresser where I plop half-worn clothes, or the side of the desk where I work. I don't think I've ever discarded one.

I feel the sting of failure when I see glimpses of other families doing the wholesome stuff that, I’m convinced, leads to healthy, socially responsible children.

"I'm your little magnet," my son said as he stuck himself to my body like static cling.