Stress

 Yesterday, we began the long (10-hour) journey to Louisville.  Our alien monkey baby is headed off to college.  It's big.  It's heavy.  Its SO exciting!!  I'm not filled with the sadness or nostalgia that I expected to paralyze me.  Maybe it just hasn't hit me yet. 

Over the last few weeks, Nick and I have often talked about how HARD this last year has been.  I don't mean 2025 but rather the last school year.  So many changes and hard things--Ike in Kindergarten, Ivy driving, Isabelle having academic struggles, Iris SO very overscheduled, Ivy figuring out college, extra curriculars, the weird political climate, the economy, the unforeseen home repairs--the list continues.  And when school was finally over, we entered the summer of insanity.  Family vacation, college orientation, scout camp, the usual crazy of my work life, Nick's constant travel.  It feels like we never found that summer groove.  

Yesterday, as we sat in the car, Nick asked me what was the most stressful part of my life.  I thought a minute.  I pretended it was uncertain.  But no--the answer was, and likely always will be, without a single doubt:

Parenting

You think the infant year is hard.  You spend months tired, sticky, and if you're lucky enough to be a breastfeeding mom, wet.  Then you're hit with a toddler.  They're everywhere all at once--yelling, throwing things, chasing the cat.  All the while they're laughing and a bundle of snuggles you just can't keep your hands off of.  Holy crap what WAS that?  The adolescent years are fairly calm--just enough for you to think you've got this whole thing figured out.  They still love you but they leave you alone for a good six hours every day.  But then comes the absolute hell of middle school.  The friendship drama, the bullying, the teasing, the cruelty of 13-year-old girls.  Seriously we should just skip that.  High school arrives with less drama--or maybe you're just less aware because they've stopped speaking to you except to ask "what's for dinner?".  But here is where the consequences get real.  There are other adults telling them what to do (sometimes good advice and sometimes you're wondering how this person ever made it to adulthood).They have opinions and ideas and are now convinced that you, with your vastly greater experience, are the stupidest person in the entire universe.

So, yes, that's my greatest stress.  Then he asked me why.  For that, I did have to think.  But I came up with 3 things:

It never lets up.  You're always on, no matter what.  From the first days of life where you're literally at their beck and call to now, as I prepare to launch my firstborn, the worry is ever-present.  I still have to think of everything because she is NOT.  She forgot a toothbrush for goodness sake!  At 18 I didn't think I needed to remind her about that.

The consequences for doing it wrong are HUGE.  If I mess up--even if that mistake is only in their eyes, I will PAY for it.  Or worse, they will pay for it.  If I buy the wrong shoes/pants/big dumb cup, the social price to pay is unaffordable.  If I lose my temper because for the one millionth time I've tripped over the shoes I BEG my child to not leave right in front of the door, the quiver of a lower lip and the big tears are enough to crush my soul.  If I give the keys to the car, permission to go out, the cell phone, the computer, internet access--all of these seemingly simple things for which I am gatekeeper--if they get access too soon, it could ruin or even take their life.  And there are no instructions.  No guidelines.  It's up to me to determine what's "best".

It's thankless.  My children will not appreciate what my body has gone through for them until they go through it themselves.  They will likely never know the hits my career has taken so that I could bring their bodies into the world.  They do not know how many mornings I wake too early, figuring out how I'm going to manage to do all the things so that they have all the things.  I custom make their grilled cheese sandwitches:

Ivy gets buffalo soy curls on sourdough

Ike gets plain but he likes it just a little brown.

Iris likes tomatoes and onions.

Isabelle wants hers with artichokes and white cheese.

I can tell which kid is coming down the stairs from the sound of their footsteps.  I know every inch of my kitchen so that when they're looking for something in the fridge or pantry, I know exactly where it is and can say "top shelf, left side, behind the ketchup," or "all the way in the back, middle shelf, under the flax seeds,". 

They benefit from these things but will likely never understand the subtle difference it makes.

To sum it up:

Parenting is the most stressful part of my life because it's constant, it's a big deal, and nobody cares.

Can I get that on a t-shirt?