What I HATE About Being a Parent

“We’re 38.8% done with raising Isla,” My husband said to me just after we celebrated my oldest daughter’s 7th birthday. I was mid dinner bite when he casually threw out the stat. “What?!” I yelped as food fell out of my mouth, and the tears pooled in my eyes. I was suddenly very confused and very sad. “Well, think about it,” he said so matter-of-factly. “We’re raising her until she’s 18 and now she’s 7. It’s simple math.” Gulp. But I thought I had more time.

You hear it often: “When did you get so big?” “Stop growing, will ya?!” “Time won’t slow down for a second to let me catch up!” The realization that your babies are actually stumbling, babbling toddlers, and your toddlers are now reading and writing prose, and your 1st grader is now actually 12, and your 12-year-old hasn’t been in diapers in nine years is startling. While I’m only on year seven of this mind-boggling parenting journey, it already has me cursing time. I suppose there is a part of me that subconsciously thinks I’m going to get a second chance at raising my girls. There are so many second chances in life. And while yes, I know that at this very moment I can make a change and teach more, love harder, and yell less, I also know that time doesn’t stop, and it certainly doesn’t go backward. And THAT makes me realize how much I hate being a parent.

I HATE that being a parent makes you cry at the drop of a hat. My husband and I often avoid eye contact when one of our girls does or says something awesome because we’d dissolve into a pile of tears. I mean, seriously, so many tears nowadays.

I HATE that being a parent means you get to hear words like “bluebies,” “Star Whirls,” and even “Duuuubard” eventually be pronounced correctly as “blueberries,” “Star Wars,” and “Duuuuuuuval.” *I particularly hate this one.*

I HATE that being a parent means you watch the baby stage end. I never EVER thought I’d say this, but I find myself tearing up when I think about it. See, so much crying!

I HATE that being a parent means I always feel rushed to get to the next place whether it be a physical building or just wanting to be out of the “hard part” of this parenting thing. So much beauty lies in the messiness, but it’s hard to see when you’re blinded by poop.

I HATE that being a parent means I can’t remember things. I can’t seem to recall my middle daughter as a baby. I desperately try to hold onto all of the hilarious things that have been said. I think I can pinpoint when they slept through the night, but maybe I just remember the one. And I certainly don’t remember why there were so many tears with my oldest. (Okay, maybe baby books would have helped me with some of these.)

I HATE that parenting makes you care so much that you question everything. Did I just give the right advice? Was that the appropriate punishment? Are they crying too much? That was an awful lot of spit-up, is that normal?!

But most of all, I HATE that your children need you less and less as the years go by. Even at 7, my oldest can wash the dishes, take a shower by herself, put her clothes away, finally go to bed without a fight, order at a restaurant, READ, voice her opinion, talk to adults without sucking on her fingers, and argue like it is her job. We’ve waited for this for years. We’ve tried to build up her confidence (and still do), so that she can go and do. Now she can, and it is all the emotions.

This parenting thing is no joke. Just when you think you can’t take your kids anymore, you realize you’re 38.8% done raising them. And then you hug them (and maybe cry in their hair) and tell them how awesome it is to be their parent and watch them turn into incredible human beings.