Parenting Perspective

Last week, I got news that an old friend of mine is expecting her first child. I sent a note to congratulate her, and we ended up speaking for awhile on the phone. At one point in the conversation, she asked, "do you have any advice?"
Talk about a loaded question. Where does one even start when asked to advise about matters of child-rearing? I'm certainly not an expert ( as is evident in my quickly-greying hair). I tried to remember which pieces of advice were given to me when I was pregnant, and which of those actually helped, when it occurred to me how silly it all is. Similac or breast? Bouncy chair or Exersaucer? Or both? Or neither?! It's all so much to take in.
My son was born the first Friday in May, and I knew nothing about parenting that day. I had held an infant only once before he was born, and never changed a diaper. I’d read lots of books, yes, but the real learning can't happen until you do it yourself. So, what did I learn?
That it's basically impossible to “sleep when they sleep.”
That the things you swore you would NEVER do - for me it was carry snacks everywhere (“they can eat at mealtime,” I sniffed) - are the things that save your sanity.
That you can never watch the news, or hear about a hurting child, the same way ever again. That there really is no need for things like electric diaper-wipe warmers or $600 strollers. On the other hand, you can never have enough spit-up cloths.
That they don't care what they're wearing and expensive, designer baby clothes are not made for them; they're made for mothers trying to impress other mothers.
That some days you might never figure out why they are crying. Sometimes they cry because they’re babies.

That you will do things for your children (ask favors, risk embarrassment) that you would never do for yourself.
That it is harder watching your kids navigate middle school than it was navigating middle school yourself.

That sleep deprivation really is a form of torture.
That paying a babysitter every couple of Saturday nights is cheaper than paying a marriage counselor.
That when your gut tells you they are sick, or something’s wrong, they are and it is.

That many battles are not worth fighting, but others definitely are, and sometimes one kind masquerades as the other.
That you’d better have a Plan B when you Count To Three.
That it’s okay to surrender to the mess. You can clean it up when they move out.
That there are things that love can’t fix.

That an otherwise healthy child, if food is made available, will not starve to death because they won't eat their supper - so chill out.
That a teenager (the classification of which should also include pre-teen) is like something out of a horror movie — their real self is somewhere within that new and scary shell, and the trick is to keep talking to the person you know is in there. They will hear you. It just might take a few years before they acknowledge that they’ve heard.

What I have learned most recently is that it all goes too fast. And if I could change anything I would have spent less time worrying that I was doing it wrong and much more time reveling in all that was right. Eighteen years of our lives and theirs are spent under the same roof (well, unless they come back…). Eighteen years, give or take, against a lifetime that spans many times that length. It is a blink. A moment. Then they move on.

Eighteen is an arbitrary line. By law and custom my sons somehow become adults at midnight. They can serve in the military and vote and sign their own consent forms on their birthday, even though the day before they were too young. It is hardly a finite line; most adults have parents who "parent” them, and I don’t plan to stop guiding my boys the morning of their birthday. But, it is also a bright and important milestone. They will be ready to head off into the world, and hopefully I'll be ready to let them.
So, to my pregnant friend, I say the important things to learn can't be found in a book. Only when you're driving your 5'2"-tall son to his first dance will you laugh at how much you agonized over which brand of diapers to use. And, if history is any indication, dropping him off at that dance will be a welcome memory the day I leave him at college.

And that's about the best I can do.