The First Parent/Child Class I Ever Took

My journey into motherhood took a winding road. I was a young mother; I welcomed my first daughter earthside about a week after I turned 22. Most mothers feel like they have a lot to prove, and I was certainly no exception, with an extra layer of age insecurity added on. Amidst a barrage of opinions from the other adults in my life, paired with the rocky seas of unnoticed postpartum anxiety, I unconsciously tried to figure parenting out by being the very best at it — a tactic many of us use when we feel insecure.

Work more. Be better. Try harder.

Most parents begin parenting either by how they were raised or in opposition to how they were raised. I felt like I needed to be like my wonderful mom: stay at home, plan outings, clean the home, make meals. (Foreshadow: none of these things are my truest calling.)

But I was young and needed to earn money, so I stayed home nannying a little girl — a charming, wonderful little girl with equally wonderful parents. I cared for her alongside raising my daughter in those earliest years. During that season, I witnessed human development from the messiest of vantage points.

These little humans had so many feelings about everything.

And I had so many feelings about all their feelings.

The little humans had vulnerability and resilience.

Yet, I could hardly muster any of either?

They had no forethought but so much wisdom: incredible learning capacities and dirty diapers. I found myself outwitted by these tiny people. 

I was being introduced to my shadows — a space I had never really explored before. I had generally been fairly good at most things I tried. Yet in motherhood I felt both like I was so amazing at it I could look down on others, while also feeling so terrible at it that perhaps someone else should raise my child.

I took my first parent-child class with my daughter when she was about 18 months old. I was about 24. It was a separating class. At the time, I still believed parenting was mostly about the quantity of time you spent with your child rather than the quality, so I was rather ragged. I didn’t quite understand why I craved that separation while also feeling guilty for wanting it.

I said goodbye to my daughter with our parting phrase at the time:

“Mommy always loves you, and mommy always comes back.”

Then I went to my class.

The parent educator was an older woman, maybe in her sixties or seventies. She seemed nice enough, but she began by having us talk with a partner about advice we would give our children when they were 25 and 30 years old.

I looked around the room at all these parents, mostly mothers,  who were probably ten years older than me.

Suddenly I was brought back to a moment a few months earlier when I was at an indoor play café with my daughter. It was just the two of us because I didn’t really have any parent friends at the time. A couple of mothers walked in with their toddlers. They were chatting with each other, wearing big, beautiful wedding rings, pushing nice strollers, beverages in hand. Their children were dressed in adorable little outfits.

I remember feeling a rush of emotions:  loneliness, jealousy, even fear.

In my mind, that was the ideal mother: mid-thirties, married, financially stable, surrounded by other mothers who seemed to know what they were doing.

And I felt so far from that.

So when I turned to my talking partner in the parent-child class, I said with honesty mixed with shame:

“I’m not even 25 yet… so this question doesn’t really pertain to me.”

To me, the exercise seemed to assume the ideal version of motherhood that was older, more settled, more established than where I was standing. Someone with life experience and advice on their side. 

And even though no one said it (and likely no one thought it). I felt, once again, like I had failed to meet the mom criteria.

The teacher went on to talk about some basic parenting topics like potty training, and before long the time was up. I left feeling unsettled.

When I walked back into my child’s classroom, the children’s teacher pulled me aside.

“Class today was really interesting,” she said. “About halfway through, your daughter climbed up on a box and started leading all the children in a chant.”

“A chant?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “She was pumping her fist yelling, ‘Mommies always come back! Mommies always come back!’ and all the other children were repeating it with her.”

My child is awesome, obviously.

But I didn’t quite know what to make of that either.

I was scanning this woman for cues that my child’s behavior was societally acceptable. So often, mothers tie their parenting skills to their children’s behavior:

 poor behavior = bad mom

 good behavior=good mom. 

So, the whole experience felt confusing and oddly revealing all at once.

When I got home, I told my partner that I thought I could probably lead those classes better. At the very least, I could make sure that parents walking into the room didn’t feel excluded and on edge… and also, we should probably be talking about how hard this parenting stuff is.

Shortly after that, I enrolled in a Master’s program in Family Education and began my work leading parent groups.

Today I am proud to say I have passed ages 25 and 30 (and have never asked that question in my hundreds of parenting classes).  However, if I were asked now what advice I would give my children at those ages, I wouldn’t give advice. 

Passing an age threshold doesn’t bestow upon me the crown of advice bearer. 

Instead ,I would ask them questions.

I would want to hear about their lives, their struggles, the things that excite them and the things that scare them. I would want to understand how adulthood is unfolding for them.

In this line of work, I have learned something simple:

Most parents are not actually looking for advice.

(and honestly, your children really aren’t looking for your advice all that often either). 

What we all want is to be truly heard and acknowledged. We want someone to sit with us in the moments of uncertainty without trying to fix us, offering us support that comes from a place of empathetic understanding. 

Fixing us assumes we are broken. 

We aren’t broken. We are learning - all of us.