Paradox

I spend considerable time thinking about how hard it is to be a mother.

I imagine that part of this fixation is centered on the fact that, before I became pregnant, I never really saw myself as anyone's mother. And frankly, I'm not all that hot on kids. I ADORE my own, of course, and I am amply amused and loving towards other kids now. But in the recent past I was one of those people who saw kids as irritating future adults. Or in the case of some of them, future irritating adults.

Perhaps this disconnect is also rooted in the fact that my pregnancies with Annemarie and Cole weren't exactly planned. With Cole it wasn't all that big of a deal -- after all, we had already received our "parent" badges in the mail and had our child-regulating software installed on the computer. But with Annemarie I faced a world of fear. In fact, every time I have been pregnant I have had this nagging little voice pop up that wonders whether I will like this one. Of course, I always like them. Adore them. The sun rises and sets by them. I would throw my body in front of bullets, cars, projectiles, and anything else flying towards them without any thought at all. And this is something of the miracle of parenthood. That I could become that mother.

But this is also where there's trouble. Parenting is the job that has no down time, no hours off. NO vacation. It overtakes everything. And it is incredibly monotonous at times, always demanding, very often mundane. It leaves you on your hands and knees very often -- picking up playdough, cleaning up milk, puke, spaghetti, dirt. It is very often thankless. And repetitive. OH THE REPETITION! And the self-defeat! Do you know how many times a day I pick up this family room just to have it look just as earthquake-like by dinner time? Yes, I know you probably know.

So I completely understand those who argue that parenting is difficult precisely because of the hard, thankless work it involves, work that often yields few immediatley visible results. And I used to think that is why it's hard, too. But I've changed my mind about that lately, mainly because the more I think about it, most jobs worth doing involve repetition and thanklessness, and all of the things that I've just discussed.

No, I think the reason why parenting is so hard is because of extraordinarily difficult work of living with such a mental paradox. How unthinkable it is to **plead** with the clock for 8:30 to roll around every night just to get a break, just to find that by the next morning a part of me has missed them for 10 straight hours. How I can be so tempted -- and often give in -- to yelling at them to stop any number of behaviors when I want nothing more than for them to live free of yelling (uh, mostly :)). How often part of me wants to physically WRING THEIR NECKS one minute, but to be confronted, even floored, by how I love them so much that it hurts, how I would give anything to protect them from pain, wrong, and unhappiness.

It is the paradox that's hard. I can think of no other job that entails such a schizophrenia.