Of Colds and Birthdays {The Disillusionment of Parenthood}

I didn't blog last week because 1) I caught a cold and 2) it was my birthday on Thursday, so lots of celebrations were had (even in the midst of the aforementioned cold...thanks to everyone who made it one of the best birthdays I have ever had!).

The cold started on Monday, with feeling really down, physically and emotionally. I felt like my legs were made of lead, and I was moving through molasses. By Tuesday, I had a sore throat and a runny nose. This was the first time since Mr. D was born that I have been sick {a miracle, which I praise God for}. That's right, I haven't been sick for more than 8 months!

Well, anyway, by Tuesday evening, I was feeling extremely sorry for myself, because here I was, sick and exhausted, and I still had to take care of Mr. D. {Wow, I can really hear the whine in that last sentence}.

Do you ever have those moments (or days, weeks, years?!) when being an adult seems like a cruel joke? Is this what I was looking forward to, when I was a child? Attending to a suddenly mobile child, who is on a napping strike, while feeling absolutely miserable?

So, I was lying in bed at 5pm, while Mr. D finally took a decent nap, when my husband comes home from work. Now, I am not exaggerating at all when I tell you that I was counting on Andy coming home to relieve me and let me finally get some rest. It was the only thing that got me through that day.

Andy would come home, and rush to my side. "How are you feeling, darling?" He'd then offer to watch Mr. D, and make dinner. He'd even go to the Infant CPR class that I signed up for. "I'll take care of everything. You just focus on getting better."

Instead, Andy came home feeling just as terrible as I did. He crawled into bed next to me, and started expressing how terrible his day had been. The gloom from the day settled firmly upon us. I realized that I wasn't going to get the night off. So what did I do? I got angry.

I jumped out of bed, and in a frenzy of frustration, I started getting ready to go to the class. I had 20 minutes to make dinner, eat dinner, and get out the door. Like a petulant child, I yelled, "This week stinks! I don't even want to have a birthday. There's nothing to celebrate, anyway." I slammed cupboards and banged pots and pans. I was a mess.

Andy came into the kitchen, and asked me how he could help. I motioned for him to take over the chopping, since I was in no condition to wield a knife. He said calmly that he thought it would be better if he went the the class. He also reminded me that we were on the same side. With tears and sobs, I sputtered, "I'm just so tired. I just want to be selfish for a change. Why does being an adult have to be so hard?" For a minute, we just stood there in the kitchen, grieving together the disillusionment that can accompany parenthood. Being a parent is hard. Harder than I ever thought it would be.

Parenthood (like marriage) is often painted in extremes: the newborn peach fuzz and coos vs. the colicky screaming banshee; the precocious lisping preschooler vs. the biting tantrum terrible twos/threes; the Gilmore Girl-like adolescent camaraderie vs. attitude-laden wild child. These are all real experiences for real parents. But more often than not, it's the day-to-day annoyances and grievances that wear us down. It's the constant death-to-self that you experience when you are responsible for another life. Rain or shine. In sickness or in health. Whether you feel like it-or not.

This is where the difficulty lies; but this is also where the grace lies. The grace to admit that it is hard. The grace to ask for forgiveness--and accept it. The grace to face disillusionment together, holding on to each other, and the promise of a better tomorrow.

{And it was}