The other day, I drove to my yearly dermatologist appointment—as with any kid-free appointment, it felt like somewhat of a vacation. On the way, the words for this post filled my head, and I couldn’t get them down on paper fast enough! These thoughts have been rolling around in my mind for weeks.
My oldest child just turned eight years old. Based on my graduate studies of early childhood, this is when a child begins to leave “early childhood” and enter “middle childhood.” My baby (our fourth) will also turn one in just a few short weeks. Normally, this is when we would start to discuss having our next baby. Four has been our number, and we always hoped and prayed that after the first, second, and third baby, another one would be coming fairly soon. But with our fourth baby approaching his first birthday, I no longer feel those feelings. My days of pregnancy, breastfeeding, and night after night of interrupted sleep somehow feel like a distant memory. As I think about the future now that our family is here and “complete,” I feel a vast sense of openness.
My role as a mother in my children’s lives is changing.
Three of my four children need me less and less for their physical care. They can dress themselves, use the bathroom themselves, fix themselves a snack, and sleep through the night. I’m feeling my role shift, and in many ways it’s exciting and limitless and full of so much opportunity. But there is a side of me that also feels worry, anxiety, and uncertainty. Most of this I can attribute to my awareness as an adult of the complexities of the world.
Recently I answered a poll asking about your most recent mama bear moments. The ones I recalled were a result of wanting to be fiercely protective of my children’s hearts, childhood, and innocence. I have already walked with my daughter as she as dealt with more “big kid” issues. It hurts my heart to know that the trials she (and my other children) will face in this life will be much greater and of deeper significance than her favorite show leaving Netflix.
One of the most often-repeated parenting adages I have heard is, “Be their parent, not their friend.”
If I’m being completely honest, at this current moment, I’m struggling with that. As I see how quickly the world is moving, changing, and forcing children to grow up quicker than we would like, I can’t help but feel that as a parent I need to strike a balance between parent and friend. Don’t get me wrong, my children have boundaries and limits, are taught respect and manners, and know that we as parents make the rules. Hopefully this will help ensure that they grow up to be healthy, respectful, contributing, and aware members of society.
That being said, I can’t help but think that my children will need me as their friend, too. They will face challenges I never knew existed as a child. They may feel isolated when they don’t have the latest technology; feel pressure to do something they aren’t comfortable with; miss out on certain activities and adventures because of their “mean” parents’ rules; or simply feel they can’t find a friend no matter how hard they try.
Growing up, my home was one of my favorite places to be. I liked being at school, I liked being with my friends, and I enjoyed a night out at a fun activity. But I always felt safe at home with my siblings and parents. I never felt like it was a punishment or the end of the world to spend a Friday night at home. Now, my parents and siblings are some of my very best friends. I think part of that comes with age and maturity, but I also can’t help but believe my parents felt the same, that there is a balance between parent and friend.
Don’t we all feel better knowing we have at least one true friend in the world?
So, as I navigate this new phase of motherhood, worrying less about diapers and sleep schedules and more about helping my children navigate friendships and feelings, my mindset has shifted. Between the chore charts, school projects, and drives to soccer practice, I think I’ll also make sure my children know that if they need me, I will be their best friend.
