A letter to friends who don’t have children

Dear Friend,

It’s hard to explain to you that I’ve joined a club that perhaps does not define me or my entire life, but takes up my entire days and nights. I love you whether you join this club or not but, right now, it’s hard to help you understand what happened to me when I became a parent.

I can tell you all about the sleepless nights, how much I want to squeeze my son’s chubby cheeks, the thoughts that consume me about what time he ate, what time he napped, and did he poop today? I can tell you about how when he naps, I’m filling out preschool forms about my daughter’s development. I can tell you about the guilt that consumes me when something she wanted to do didn’t work out or the constant worrying (Did she have too many brownies? Is that a sniffle or just a sneeze?). 

What I can’t explain to you is how overwhelming it all feels. Sure, you can imagine, and even bear witness to the challenges and joys of parenthood, but you’re not here yet. Whether you want this life or not, you’re not here. Forgive me if it sounds harsh but any judgment, any opinions about kids and any prophecies about what you will be like as a future parent are not applicable, simply because you are not here yet.

There is no right way to be—parent or not—just as there is no correct identity, gender, sexuality, relationship status. But when you’re in the thick of parenting, it’s nearly impossible to imagine or relate to anything outside. Because I’ve changed. Like it or not, I am not the same person I was before. I am consumed by parenting in this phase of my life, not only because it’s my full-time job at the moment, but because it’s every parent’s full-time job at the moment—whether they have another career or not. Little kids need their parents so much that we are a constant, ever-present force in their vicinity, and so too are they in ours.

They are born and you never stop worrying. They hit a milestone and then it’s time to worry about something else. Your own life is punctuated, defined and memorialized by these events (“Oh, that was the winter she started walking!” or “That was the trip he finally slept through the night!”). For me, concerns about climbing a career ladder, worrying about aging and what my abs look like, what others think of me, what my five-year plan is—none of these things are priorities in my life anymore. It sounds freeing, and in a way, it is. But all of it is replaced by making sure I’m raising good humans in the best way possible, which is a damn hard job.

So please forgive me if it seems like I can’t fully relate to the independence and autonomy you have. I envy you often. Sometimes, I still see and remember that part of me. She’s somewhere deep inside me. I’m still me, after all, but what you may not fully understand is that I am consumed with them. They are whole, little beings who have their own needs, personalities and opinions, and I am in charge of them for the foreseeable future. Can you imagine? You can’t possibly. I certainly couldn’t before they were here.

I’ll never judge you, I’ll always love you, but it’s impossible to get it until you’re in it.

Your Friend, Sara