Motherhood, hey? It feels like each time I think I get a finger on the handle, the ride jerks away from me and I’m left wondering how to catch up…

I’ve been reading The Art of Growing Up, by the illustrious John Marsden and it is (despite his prose being an immensely enjoyable experience) like being punched between the eyes. He outlines the crucial importance of parenting and all the ways we are getting it wrong. Using examples from Candlebark and his many years as a teacher, he shares his observations about how parents often either love their children too much (adoring them and turning them into narcissistic brats) or too little (off saving the world and uninterested in the all-too-real being in front of them needing attention).

Of course, it is far more nuanced than this, and I’m already doing him a great disservice by distilling his words down. Marsden delves deeply into many facets of parenting and adolescence, illustrating his points colourfully with reference to classic literature and case studies from his own schools.

Aren’t we always wondering if we are doing it wrong?

I’m in a constant in a state of vacillation. ‘Ah, wonderful, I have a bit of time to myself, time to catch up on some reading!’ (which is wonderful and rejuvenating). Then, ‘Oh dear, has it really been that long? I should be spending more time with the kids.’ I teeter between over-protective mother tyrant – reacting with tight-fisted competence and control, and then veer into fear that I’m not releasing them enough and that they’ll be infantilised adults who won’t be able to pay a phone bill.

I’m not looking for validation or encouragement about my personal skills as a mother. Who knows what qualifies us to bring and raise other humans in this world? I fail them daily – in my shortness and frustration, my jumping to conclusions before waiting to hear what actually happens, my tendency to pompously lecture over an injured body rather than scoop them up and hold my tongue. I see their flaws as loudly as neon signs blaring my own back at me.

And yes, I show my love for them daily – in the meals made, hugs given, time spent, books read, conversations had, balls thrown, laughter shared. But somehow it feels easier to gloss over these constants and focus on the blips instead.

This parenting thing is hard.

I feel ill-equipped for the magnitude of what it requires every single day. It takes everything. Heart, soul, hands, energy. I’m giving it everything I have, and it still never seems quite enough.

Have their toenails been clipped recently? Oh gosh, they look like claws. Those teeth really should have been gone over again, but I just don’t have time right now. Should they be packing their own lunchboxes at this age? Has he really not done his contribution AGAIN? This bathroom is filthy, when am I going to find time to get around to doing it? I haven’t spent enough quality time with her today. Did we have enough vegetables in the dinner tonight? Does this go in the bin or recycling? Oh no, don’t cough, I don’t have time for anyone to be sick this week. Don’t you dare have a freaking meltdown over the pile of dirty underwear YOU refused to take to the laundry the whole week and then act as if it’s MY fault that you have none to wear today! 

I could go on.

Why is it so hard? Advice flies at me from all angles, and I know it will take so much self-work to even get close to helping them. We do have an undeniable impact upon our children – to the point that ‘in a large number of cases in which children present with symptoms of psychiatric illness, the symptoms disappear when the primary caregiver is treated.’ (The Art of Growing Up, p 182).

That’s a lot of pressure.

Marsden does offer some hope in putting forth the notion of the ‘good enough’ mother, and that if we extend this concept and ‘provide a reasonably safe place in which the child can play, and we answer her or his questions honestly and thoughtfully, then we won’t be doing too much wrong’ (The Art of Growing Up, p 95).

It’s mildly reassuring.

It’s the over-complication that bites. The fear I have of what ‘others’ will think of my parenting can often warp it into something unhelpful. I react to perceived urgencies, beat my way down paths that were irrelevant, just to prove a point. To whom, I’m not sure.

I’m grateful for the tribe. Those in the thick of it who can offer empathy and reassurance. Tomorrow is another day. It really is hard. What can you control? If you, too, feel buffeted by the waves of expectations and obligations, let me know. Life can be really complicated sometimes. And it’s okay to admit that we haven’t got it all figured out. That’s the nature of the ride, I suppose.

It takes a little faith… and a hell of a lot courage to keep at it.

Here’s to another day.