Some people walk into parenthood with a very specific set of ideas about what it will look like. They have lots of plans. You know the ones, right? “Oh my child will NEVER act that way in public.” And “Oh I will NEVER feed my child that.”
Those people are delightful, no?
Me, I was definitely not one of those people. In fact, if there were a spectrum of pre-parental behavior (think 10–knows everything and 0-knows nothing) I would have been a negative 20. I was 100% completely clueless as to what parenting would entail, how I would handle it and what exactly it would look like. And unlike most people I was completely aware of this fact. As it turns out this was both a blessing and a curse for my parenting career.
When I was pregnant with Dillon I literally had NO IDEA what I was doing. NONE. Really. I was scared out of my mind. I played brave to the world, I think, with the exception of that one time at Target where I may have had a major meltdown over diaper sizes. But deep inside, I was terrified.
I knew I could barely, at that time in my life, take care of myself, much less a tiny human being. This is the woman who once needed help getting out of her very own boots (true story) so being put in charge of dressing and changing a wiggly newborn–preposterous. And don’t even get me started on the terror of bathing a squirming infant who seemed so infinitely breakable–this caused hot sweats and postpartum nightmares for weeks. How any of us have any confidence about parenting before having babies I will never know.
This stuff is crazy.
And this is why Dillon’s birth story is so funny. Because, well, it was the very first clueless action, in a now long and storied career of clueless actions, that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am way out of my league in this parenting thing.
Let me paint a picture for you–Jeff and I were newlyweds. We were living thousands of miles from our families in Southern California. We were nine months pregnant and terrified out of our minds, feeling the pressure of parenting, marriage, life, and career. And if I’m being honest with you, I would say that we weren’t quite grown up enough to handle all of these things well. So when Jeff was told he had to travel to Texas when I was 37 weeks pregnant, we did what we thought was right. We asked our doctor, “Is this ok? Is this baby going to make a grand appearance while he’s away?” She assured us it would be fine. First babies almost never come early. It would be okay.
**It’s at this point in the story that we also learn a very valuable lesson about doctors–they too are winging it. Sometimes the best they can do is take an educated guess based on experience and cross their fingers. That’s it.**
So, with reassurance from our completely human doctor, Jeff hopped on a jet plane and flew back to his mother state. For a while, all was good. I kept busy. I think I hung out with a few friends, shopped, and chatted with my mom. But if I’m being honest I don’t really know because life before kids was such a blur of inactivity that felt busy but now, looking back, seemed laughably un-busy despite my belief I was just exhausted from the stress of it. Then, after a blissful day of being NOT quite yet responsible for another human, my water broke at 2:00 am on Sunday morning.
Imagine this, friends. I was ALONE. In the middle of the night. My husband was thousands of miles away and so was my mom. I was terrified. And I was in labor.
It’s important for you to understand that this was before iPhones and constant connectivity, so getting Jeff to actually wake up to the anemic peal of his flip phone in his hotel room wasn’t easy. But eventually, after a few tries, he did. And the plan flew into action. Well, at least part of the plan. Because even though we were young and idiotic, we did actually have a plan. He kept up his side of the bargain, hastily packing up and running to the airport to hop on the first flight available. For my part, though, I decided a detour was preferable.
I was supposed to call our friends and have them drive me the 25 minutes up the 5 FREEWAY to the hospital. Which, if you’re familiar with California you know that it is a terrible idea to drive on the 5 even without being in labor. In labor in the middle of the night, it’s just the worst idea in the history of ideas. I was supposed to ask for help. But here’s the thing, I’m kind of stubborn. And a little stupid. And I don’t like to put people out. So I didn’t. Our friends had four kids. Their youngest was a baby. I didn’t want to disturb them. So I did what any normal sane woman would do. I took a shower. (because WHY?). I packed a bag (with what I’ll never know). And then I put a towel down on my front seat (because gross) and drove myself to the hospital. LABOR PAINS AND ALL.
I had no idea at the time how dangerous this was. I knew vaguely it wasn’t probably my best move but I also figured that “hey, I’ve got this.” (I didn’t have this.) I remember almost nothing about that trip except the incessant conversation I had with my firstborn who wanted so desperately to make an early showing. I begged and pleaded for him to stay put. That’s all I know.
Because it was the middle of the night, I had to park the car and walk in through the emergency room doors, straight on up to the L&D floor. Once again, I don’t remember much of this walk of shame, but I do know that when I walked onto the labor and delivery floor and the nurses figured out that I was alone, all hell broke loose. I became a delivery room superstar. Everyone on that floor began circling the wagons around me, assuring me that it would be ok, checking to see if Jeff had finally made it in. I can’t be certain of it, but judging by the number of random strangers who popped in to ask if he was here yet I can guess they even had a pool going to see who could accurately guess his arrival time. It was insane.
And all the while, I kept begging Dillon (who was not named yet) to stay put until his daddy got there.
The friends I was supposed to call to take me to the hospital were incredulous. Angry even. People kept offering to come to the hospital to wait with me. No one wanted me to be alone. But y’all, I was 1) naive and stupid and 2) I really wanted this moment, the birth of my first child to be between just my husband and me. That was it. And somehow, just somehow, I knew it would all work out.
I was right, of course. They were able to hold labor off until Jeff walked in the door around noon. He got to hold my hand, calm me down and be my rock. Which he still is to this day. And Dillon got to enter into this world just as he lives now, in full drama with lots of chaos and noise. And even though I was a fool who managed to put myself in a very dangerous position, it all worked out.
But the fact that it worked out in our favor does not change the fact that I was completely and utterly clueless about parenting, even then.
And the biggest joke of my parenting life is, that I still am.
I’m clueless when I’m trying to help this child, once an impatient baby coming three weeks early, navigate the complicated emotions of middle school or the ridiculous equations of sixth-grade math. I’m clueless when I see his folder laying in his homework bin long after he’s been picked up for carpool. Do I take it to him? Is that enabling? I have no freaking idea.
Guys, I’m clueless about this parenting thing. And most days I feel like I’m losing.
When my middle son was born with a birth defect (story here) everyone and their mother sent me this essay called “Welcome to Holland.” It’s a beautiful illustration of what it feels like to have a child with a birth defect or a disability, a child who is different than you expected. It breathed life into my hurting hurt, the one who dealt with the pain of having a kid who looked different–a baby all but ignored by strangers who would peek, hoping to OOH and AAH over the cute little baby, only to turn away, shocked into the silence of not knowing what to say. I LIVED this essay. (you can read it here)
The thing I’ve realized about parenting, though, is that every child is “Welcome to Holland” at some time. Every single parent, no matter what, will have a “Welcome to Holland” moment. Because parenting is never what we think it will be. Whatever script we write for our lives, or theirs, is just a mere suggestion for the brush strokes of God’s.
Welcome to Holland is a child with all of the athletic gifts in the world and the pedigree of superstar parents, saying “I don’t want to play that anymore, Dad. I want to act. I’m done.”
Welcome to Holland is a child who doesn’t have friends, despite a parental line of a Homecoming Queen and Prom King. A child who has quirks and ticks that maybe the other kids don’t like. And they can’t help it.
Welcome to Holland is a kid who feels so bad about themselves that no matter what you do they are angry and mad and make threats to hurt themselves. And sometimes, even do it.
Welcome to Holland is the child of two valedictorians struggling just to make C’s.
Welcome to Holland is small things. And big. Welcome to Holland is the price of raising a human being, flawed from the beginning, yet infinitely loved and valued.
But Welcome to Holland is hard. And most days, I don’t know how to navigate it. I feel, even eleven years in, like I have no idea what I’m doing. On my best days, I’m sorta kinda doing it right and on my worst, I feel like a terrible failure. The weirdest part is I can feel like both within the span of one hour. Parenting is that weird.
Y’all, I don’t have any answers. And I’m probably writing this right now as my own little therapy session, after a series of days that feel like a punching match to my already bruised mom heart. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I drove on up the 5, labor pains and all. I had no idea what I was doing when I tied their little sneakers tight and walked them into Kindergarten on that very first day. And I definitely have no idea what I’m doing now as I’m trying to navigate the rough waters of middle school, with the weird overlap of social and educational, and emotional situations.
I’m still that same scared girl, wondering what on earth she has gotten herself into. I’m just not standing in a diaper aisle anymore.
Maybe we all are. I don’t know. But I’m here telling you, in my most honest of honest moments, that it’s totally ok. If the doctors are winging it, so can we. We’re all just here trying our best. We’re going to make a lot of mistakes. We’re going to feel challenged and stretched and have “Welcome to Holland” moments every single day. But maybe, just maybe, all we can do is LOVE THEM. Like fierce protective, go to any lengths LOVE them. That’s what they’ve got to see. Not that we’ve got it all together, because we don’t. But that we love them.
And maybe, just maybe, that is all that they ever really needed anyway.
Welcome to Holland, friends. I’ve heard it’s beautiful here.
Welcome to BurntToast! My name is Meaghan, and this is my safe space, a place where we can share stories, share recipes and share life. It’s my dream that you can come here, kick your shoes off and pour yourself a glass of wine while you read, laugh, and maybe even hop into the kitchen. This is my heart, for all of you to see. And ALL are welcome here.