Parenting Is Weird (But We’ve Got This)

Parenting is weird.
I think I’ve already said that—but it’s true.

One day, you’re a regular adult doing your thing, and the next day? You have a baby named Twinkle. You’re a parent! Congratulations!!

And what did you do to qualify for this role? Have sex?? Yeah, right. HAHA.

At first, this tiny human is completely dependent on you.

You feed them. You bathe them. You change their diapers and dress them.
They rely on you for absolutely everything—which is terrifying.
Especially when everyone around you says, “You’ve got this! You’re doing great!”

And despite the terror and the mostly sleepless nights, you know this is actually the easy part.
Anyone can learn to hold a baby, change a diaper, make a bottle.

So you start to settle into the idea that you do have this. You think, “This isn’t too hard. I can do this.”

And then Twinkle learns to grab things. And roll over. And sit up.
Suddenly, danger is everywhere.

Twinkle might fall backward while sitting and hit her head, causing—permanent brain damage.
She might roll off the couch and bang her head, causing—of course—permanent brain damage.
Or she might put something in her mouth and choke on it, causing—yep—permanent brain damage.
You see where this is going.

The point is: suddenly the whole world feels like a threat to this tiny being you’ve been entrusted with.
Everything is a hazard.

And then Twinkle smiles at you—and you melt.
You’re a puddle of goo because this tiny human smiled.
Everything is going to be okay.
She smiled, you’ve got this—and all is well in your world.

As baby Twinkle grows, you relive this vicious cycle over and over.
But you learn. You adapt. You childproof everything—including yourself.
(I swear some of those childproofing devices are more adult-proof! The toddler can open the child lock, but Dad spends 20 minutes trying to get the toilet open to pee.)

And you pause for a moment, watching her, and think—How did we get here?

You start to feel confident again. You have more days (or hours… maybe minutes?) thinking, “This isn’t so hard. I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Then Twinkle starts feeding herself. And trying to dress herself.

You go from rescuing her from the trap her shirt becomes (“How does she even get her head out that tiny armhole?”) to admiring her fully dressed in an array of dazzling colors and prints.

Nothing matches. Not a single item on her body coordinates. But she did it herself.
All her limbs are in the right holes, and her pants aren’t backwards. It’s a victory!

But a little part of you feels sad—because this is another leap forward into a life where Twinkle doesn’t need you quite as much.
She can dress herself. She can conquer the world… mismatched clothes and all.

And you can’t help but wonder—How did we get here?

And then she starts daycare or preschool. Another person will care for your child.
You’re going to miss her smiles, her giggles, her hugs, and those sloppy, drool-laden kisses.

And the what-ifs start again—the endless list of dangers that might befall her when she’s out of your sight.

But she has to go. She’s a big girl now, as she proudly reminds you.

So you take her to her first day and watch as she runs off to Dewdrop, her friend from the playground—and your heart shatters.

Or maybe she clings to your leg, sobbing, and the teacher has to peel her off.
When Twinkle and her octopus grip are finally removed, the teacher mouths, “She’ll be fine. We’ve got this.”

And your heart shatters.

You spend the day choking back tears, trying not to imagine the hundred thousand threats she might encounter today.

The days and years fly by.
First, second, third grade—all in your rearview mirror.

She learns to “play” the recorder, and you smile as she honks out Hot Cross Buns… or at least what she claims is Hot Cross Buns.

She joins the orchestra, and you drop her off for evening rehearsals.
She plays soccer or basketball or baseball—you drive her to practices and scrimmages.
She jumps out of the car and runs toward her friends and teammates without a backward glance.

And as you drive away, you think of the baby who once cried when you left her.
You blink back tears as your heart fills with both pride and the ache of loss.
How did we get here?

Then one morning, you wake up—and it’s the first day of middle school.
Your baby is going to middle school.

Twinkle is dressed and ready.
She isn’t wearing the outfit you bought for her first day.
Instead, she’s rocking leopard-print pants and a t-shirt.
She matches—and she clearly has her own style now.

You reach out to push a lock of hair behind her ear, and she pulls away.
“Mooom, stop!” she says, glaring.

And you do stop—but in your head, you still see your drooly, smiling baby Twinkle.
You know this is another big step.

She has a cell phone now. She goes to the mall with friends.
There are days when you see her for twelve seconds before she’s off again—to rehearsal, to practice, to whatever tonight’s activity is.

You smile with pride while missing the little girl who needed you for everything.

But she’s a teenager now.
There are school dances, secrets, and new friends who don’t live in your neighborhood.
There are boys she whispers about to her friends.

When you ask questions, she rolls her eyes and sighs, “Ugh, Mom, stop.”

Everything you do seems to annoy her.
But you look at her and remember the beautiful little girl she was—and still is.

So you wait for the moments when she needs you again.
When a friend hurts her feelings and she cries on your shoulder.
When she has no plans and curls up with you on the couch for popcorn and a movie—she still insists on choosing the movie, but now she makes the popcorn.

Middle school ends. High school begins.
You look at her, and once again think, How did we get here?

She gets her learner’s permit, and then her license.
Suddenly you’re in the passenger seat, clutching the door handle while she drives.

You look at her and wonder, Where did the time go? How is my baby girl driving? How did we get here?

The years blur together—boyfriends, dress shopping, SATs, midterms, school projects, proms.
Every so often, you catch a glimpse of that little girl again, and your heart simultaneously melts and bursts with pride.

You see the young woman you’ve raised, and even though you sometimes feel left behind, you feel proud.
Proud of her. Proud of yourself. Proud of what she has become and who she is.

And then she’s a senior.
Senior photos. College applications.

Today she wants to be a teacher.
Tomorrow, a storm chaser.
Or a violinist.

There are so many choices, so much stress, angst, and excitement.
You try to slow time—to savor every last moment—but the days don’t slow.

College acceptances come in.
The last day of high school looms.
And you realize there will soon be a day when you don’t need to pick her up from school.
She’ll be done. She’ll have graduated.
And you’ll wonder again, How did we get here?

Her 18th birthday comes.
Eighteen!
Your baby is officially an adult.

It’s surreal.
You’ve made it.
This is the moment you’ve been working toward—proof of a job well done.

But you don’t feel ready.
And maybe, neither does she.

Freshman year of college brings new challenges, new experiences, new heartaches, new fears. But also—new pride.

That little girl who once stuck her head through the armhole is now adulting.
Making adult decisions. Living an adult life.

And the years keep flying by, each faster than the last.

You meet her boyfriend.
Soon he’s her fiancé.
And then—her husband.

Now she’s a them.
She’s not just your girl anymore.
She has a husband—and you have a son-in-law.

(And let’s be honest—it’s a little weird the first time you introduce him that way.)

Even though you still see that baby girl when you look at her, you also see the toddler, the kindergartener, the fifth grader, the middle schooler, the teen, the college student, and the young adult you helped shape.

You see all your hard work, your tears, your laughter, your fears, your joy, your heart.

You see the amazing woman you’ve raised—and you know life is changing again.
The old what-ifs creep back in. The worries. The dangers. The fears.

You feed them. You bathe them. You teach them. You love them.
And then you let them go.

And you worry—you’ll always worry.

Time with Twinkle becomes more scheduled.
Road trips and adventures become coffee dates and shopping trips.
You still love spending time with her—it’s just a lot less time.

So you savor every second and try not to be sad about the changes life throws your way.

And then, on a spontaneous day out—when you least expect it—you see her looking around, and you know she’s looking for you.
Just as she did at her kindergarten play, her first orchestra concert, her last concert, and so many moments in between.

You know the instant she finds you—because she smiles.
And you melt.

You think—How did we get here?

And you know… we’ve got this. We’re doing a good job.

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