The Early Years

Everyone tells those of us looking to start a family that it is rewarding—sometimes to the point that if you find yourself hating it, you feel like a horrible person and mother. We are indoctrinated into thinking that there will be more good days than bad days, when it comes to raising your own brood of children. Almost every photo posted is of family moments that include laughter and smiles. Is it any wonder why people start families having no idea what they’re getting into?

As the mother of a four-year-old and a two-year old, I can attest that laughter and smiles make up about 10-20 percent of a given day. The rest of it is whining, screaming, and crying.

“I’m hungry!”

“I don’t want THAT Mac and Cheese!”

“She stole my toy!”

“He pushed me!”

“I’m NOT tired!”

“I’m sleepy!”

I could go on and on. At these two ages, I’ve realized that everything is a crisis, and it must be fixed, post-haste, or we risk the end of the world. They play off of each other, too.

Last night, my son was sitting on our family room ottoman watching some TV with us. My daughter walked over and plopped herself down right in front of him, blocking his view. He whined, telling her he couldn’t see, before pushing her off the ottoman. She did it again. He repeated. The third time, he screamed at her to stop. She turned around, and got in his face so he poked her. She started crying and shoved him. And then they were both crying.

It’s like this almost every night. It’s worth mentioning that during this exchange, both my husband and I were trying to de-escalate the situation. In retrospect, we could have physically separated them instead of using words, but we didn’t. Eventually, we were able to calm both of them down, but by then it was bedtime.

I use this as one example of many. As such, it’s exhausting to be a parent in the early years. I remember reading somewhere that young children have no emotional control until they’re around the age of five, so at least for my son, we have a long way to go. A friend of mine told me recently that around the age of seven they finally start to become self-sufficient, and stop fighting things like bedtime. As awful as it feels to say it, I look forward to those days even though it’ll mean we have less years left to spend together.

You see, both my husband and I work 40-50 hours a week. The time we get to spend with our kids is somehow both precious and dreadful at the same time. As an introvert, I go to bed mentally and emotionally exhausted most nights. Our marriage has suffered from becoming parents. Our house is rarely clean. We struggle to keep the lawn mown some weeks. These little heathens, as much as I love them, take up so much time and effort that chores and hobbies that were once easy are now difficult to accomplish. Even cooking a meal has turned into a circus of one parent keeping the kids out of the kitchen while the other cooks. God forbid one of us is still at work, because I know I’ve burned more than my fair share of food trying to wrangle them back into the family room by myself.

Don’t take any of this to mean I hate being a parent. It’s just about the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it does have its rewards. Both of my kids hug me when I get home. They both enjoy cuddles and bedtime stories, and sometimes they say the most hilarious things. These early years are the hardest, though, and if you’re feeling it like I am, just know you aren’t alone.