When you decide to have kids, you’re not quite sure how it’s going to turn out. People who already have kids might tell you it’s a difficult, yet wonderful experience. It’s tough to really really grasp what people are telling you, until you do it yourself.
One thing I’ve discovered as a result of having kids is a newfound respect for my parents. I already loved and appreciated my parents before having kids, but now I have an additional sense of appreciation for them. I know that kids are, by their very nature, sometimes impossibly adorable, and sometimes impossibly a pain in the butt. It stands to reason that I, too, was frequently an impossible pain in the butt.
For several months there, my son Luc wanted to “be the leader”. This meant he always had to be the first one out the door, or down the stairs, or up the stairs, or into the car, or a thousand other things. If he didn’t get to be the leader, total meltdown ensued. No amount of logical reasoning would help, no matter how many times it happened. No amount of emotional reasoning would help, either. So of course, sometimes we just needed to get upstairs quickly, and the inevitable meltdown ensued. Every parent’s got some story like this. You just try to grin and bear it and wait until they grow out of it, which Luc naturally did.
I’d like to think I was the one child who didn’t throw random tanturms, the one who slept through the night right from the get-go, the one who was always reasonable and — oh never mind, you get it — such a child doesn’t exist. So I must have been a pain, and my parents must have endured it and tried to shape me when they could and let me grow into a regular person. (At least, that’s what I tell myself these days — that I’m a regular person. Nobody’s really regular when you think about it. Let’s just say, I’m not a serial killer. Not yet.)