- I always liked to be in control of everything in my life, from work to my routine at home.
- When I became a parent, I started to learn that this wasn't realistic.
"Promise me you'll never break my heart." I remember so clearly whispering those words to my son as I rocked him two months after I'd given birth to him in fall 2014. I breathed in the scent of his hair, enjoying the warmth of his squishy body snuggled against mine. We were standing by the window in his nursery. In that moment, I almost believed that if I hugged my baby tightly enough, he would listen to me and understand how much I loved him.
It was unfair to both of us to wish for such a thing. I just didn't know it yet.
Parenthood taught me to relinquish control
I've always prided myself in taking control of situations. In school, I liked to feel in control of my grades. At work, I managed details. Even at home, I tend to run the daily routine. While nine months pregnant, I even told my coworkers that I planned to "keep the baby inside" until I wrapped up my projects.
The tumultuous reality of suddenly having zero control with a newborn was a steep adjustment. One coworker gently advised me to just "let the chaos" wash over me. But I wasn't ready for the uncertainty or the, "Oh, my god, why is his pee that color?" freak-outs in those early days. All my painstaking research flew out the window. For example, I wish someone had told me to unwrap the bottles before the baby arrived. An infant who's hangry at 3 a.m. doesn't understand why he has to wait for Daddy to sanitize those.
We managed to find our way through the chaos. I was never big on Mommy-and-me groups because being around other moms of newborns and facing their questions made me feel anxious.
"Don't worry. He'll crawl when he's ready. I'm sure there's nothing — wrong."
"What? You introduced a screen?"
Four days after my son's second birthday, I gave birth to his little brother. We continued to enjoy our routinely chaotic but generally content little bubble.
When they started preschool, their personalities grew
When preschool hit, having the boys in a structured setting was a monumental blessing. I had more time to plan and write again.
On the other hand, we discovered their big feelings. I used to compare their more-spirited moods to larger-than-life creatures, like dinosaurs, dragons, and yetis, the latter of which matched my older son's mop of bedhead each morning. But when their yeti-sized antics were on full display, it was impossible not to compare their behavior to the other kids'. Now I didn't just have time to plan. I had time to worry.
Don't get me wrong — the boys both thrived in school. By this point, I felt more comfortable talking to other moms and sharing experiences, like, "Can you believe my son stuck a bead up his nose?"
But preschool was also when I discovered the nerve-racking "pickup report" — when you find out how your child behaved for the day. There's a moment as you pull up to the school when you tell yourself, "Maybe today was a good day." You hold your breath as you walk up to the classroom door, praying that the teacher will be smiling and send your child scooting out into your arms.
But almost every day, I would make eye contact and the teacher would quietly ask me, "Wait, so I can speak with you for a moment." A pit formed in my stomach as I watched every other kid come marching out like little angels, while mine remained behind. I started frantically imagining worst-case scenarios, wondering, "What did my child do?" And my heart broke. Because as much as I wished I could guide them through every moment to make better choices, I couldn't.
My children's struggles broke my heart
The "pickup report" incidents have varied over the years. Some of them have made us laugh; others, we still shake our heads at.
During my older son's first preschool Halloween, in 2017, he flat-out refused to wear the race-car driver costume he had picked out. I'll never understand why. He had happily played in it for weeks. That morning at drop-off, though, he ripped the costume off from over his clothes, Hulk-style, and collapsed in a truly spectacular tantrum. His teacher had to physically lift him off the hallway floor (leaving the costume discarded) and patiently carry him into the classroom. He was the only child not in costume for the parade. On the ride home, I cried. Why was my son different? He broke my heart.
Meanwhile, my younger son struggled massively with separation anxiety. He also barely ate anything aside from bread and cookies and had a hard time sitting still. I would watch through the window as his teacher read a story, and while every other child listened with rapt attention, he wandered around the room. I held in the tears until after pickup. Why couldn't my kid sit still? My heart broke again.
I learned the bad moments were temporary
These antics were blips in the grand scheme of parenting. Halloween is now a favorite for my older son. My little guy has grown into such a good student, loves trying new activities, and has unilaterally declared he wants to move to Japan so he can eat "all the Japanese food." But in the moment, those frustrating experiences felt huge because they were firsts for not just the boys but also me.
I wanted things to go perfectly. I thought I understood how things were supposed to be. I didn't realize at the time that I was learning along with the boys. There wasn't anything wrong with them. They were just growing up, and so was I.
Without their quirks, I would never have come to appreciate the incredible patience of those first loving preschool teachers. I know now that they weren't giving me the daily report as a criticism but as a way of helping. I consider them the original "yeti whisperers" because they knew how to help guide the boys' big feelings — and, perhaps, mine — in productive ways.
Thinking back on that idyllic, snuggly moment by the window, I know it was unfair of me to ask my son not to break my heart because he's going to break it in a million ways every day. But when it heals, it comes back together stronger. Each time he breaks my heart, he's teaching me how to be a better parent for him. He's teaching me how to love him more fiercely, how to fight for him more vigilantly, and, in those chaotic moments, how to have more grace with the both of us.
All those messy, cringeworthy mishaps were just part of the process. They're little individuals with big feelings and big opinions. It was never my job to control them. It was my job to love them when those big feelings met the real world. Hopefully, we'll continue growing together, yetis and all.