This Parenting Thing

I lie in the dark, attempting to will sleep to come to me. All is quiet in the house except for the soft breathing of my sleeping children. I wrap myself up in the fleece sheets and feel the warmth flood my body, and still sleep does not come. The moon shines in my window and I get up to close the curtains. Flashbacks of the week flood my brain as I relive each moment where failure flooded my day.

This parenting thing? It's not for the faint of heart. It's without a doubt the hardest, most thankless thing I have ever done in my life. Most days I waver between wondering what the hell I'm doing and hoping against all hope that nobody figures out that I'm just faking my way through it all. Every single day I find myself full of wrong choices and wrong reactions and wrong actions and so many wishes that I could start over and try again.

It's bloody hard to be responsible for tiny humans. Beyond the mundane tasks of feeding and clothing them and making sure they are clean and safe, there's the responsibility of being the caretakers of their emotional selves. And that's where it gets even harder. Knowing that I'm responsible to mold and shape these tiny humans into kind, caring adults who hopefully speak out against injustices, stand up for those less fortunate, fight against racism and sexism and prejudice, and make a difference in the world is mind blowing. How does one even begin to go about such an amazing responsibility?

It's in the mundane.

It's in the washing and folding of laundry (always the laundry, oy). The cooking of dinners and lunches and breakfasts. The cleaning of the house. The insisting of children helping out with the cleaning. The driving them to school. The walking them to the bus stop. The reading of books together. The ensuring they have hung up their coats and snow pants (and reminding them 10 times a day to do so). The driving to soccer practice and basketball games and art class and music lessons. The showing up every single, day even when we are sick and can barely function ourselves. The taking the time to look after ourselves so that we don't get so sick. The just being there. The every day things that they see us doing, even when we don't want to do them.

That's how it happens.

That's how we begin.

And then, we add in the rest of it. We show them. By standing up for others. By speaking up and saying, "hey, that's not okay" when we see or hear someone being racist or sexist or prejudiced, even if said person is someone we love. By being cognizant of the language and words we use to talk about the world so as to not pass on the biases that we have developed. By being kind. By sharing even when we don't have much to share. By actively seeing the good in others. By talking about the hard things with our kids.

But we start with the mundane and just keep showing up.

And eventually, I hope, I dream that my children will look back and see that I tried my hardest. And that they will be kind and caring and will be the kind of person who stands up against injustice in spite of the biases that I have inadvertently passed on to them.

I guess I better go do my laundry.