An open letter to new parents

An open letter to new parents: I’m sorry.

I can still swaddle like a boss and expertly tie a Moby wrap, but I’m fuzzy on the details that come with tiny babies. My littlest baby hasn’t been a “baby” in almost two years, and sometimes that means that I forget what it’s like to be in your (probably-filled-with-crushed-Goldfish-crackers) shoes.

I’m sorry for the times I raised my eyebrows when you complained on Facebook about it being hard — and you *only* have one child.

When I had one child, there were plenty of times when it felt hard. Then I had two children, and realized that I’d had no clue. One itty-bitty child! Pfffft, why are you complaining? Just wait until you have two!

I forget sometimes that when it’s all you know, one child can be overwhelming. People who have three, four, or five kids would probably laugh at the idea of me struggling with *only* two kids. Kids can be hard, regardless of the number.

I’m sorry for brushing off your exhaustion, or comparing it to my own.

I mean, we’re all tired, right? I say I’m tired all of the time. But I’m not, really. I have forgotten what it means to really be exhausted.

The nights where the baby was up every hour, and then suddenly it was morning and I’d barely slept at all? I can barely remember that feeling, but I know it was miserable (because I blogged about it). I cried in the shower. I stared at my dead-eyed reflection in the mirror as I swung a colicky baby back and forth using the Five S’s. I dreamed of a life where I had 30 minutes to myself, all alone.

These days, my kids go to bed between 7:30 p.m. and 8 p.m. They may not fall asleep right away, but they entertain themselves with books and dolls and flashlights. I complain when I have to run up and down the stairs a few times to re-tie robes or find lost stuffies, but that’s nothing. I have a couple of hours to read or work or watch TV, and I know you would kill for that “me-time” right now.

I’m sorry for rolling my eyes at your text or Facebook message, when you bailed on an outing.

It’s easy for me to downplay tossing the kids into the car and zooming off, because it’s much easier for me now. My kids zip up their coats, walk out the door and down the front steps, climb into the minivan, sit in their seats, and wait to be buckled into their carseats. Don’t worry — that day will come for you, too.

I never want to make you feel badly when you’re overwhelmed by going out. If I really squint and use my best thinky face, I can remember a time when I, too, found it hard to get out of the house with a newborn and a toddler. There are diapers, clothes, bottles, pacifiers, snacks, bibs, burp cloths, nursing covers, and rubber giraffes to find, organize, and pack — not to mention car keys, your wallet, your phone, and … ugh, I’m tired just thinking about it. Don’t worry. I’ll come to your place.

I’m sorry for chuckling and making you feel like you’re over-thinking things, whether it’s introducing solids, potty-training, or picking out a stroller.

I was totally that mom, too. I positively agonized about getting exactly the right playpen with the built-in bassinet. I got a bit psycho about finding crib sheets, too. I was so worried about my first baby choking that I gave him finger foods the size of grains of rice. My more experienced mom-friend, Evie, laughed and encouraged me to lighten up. I was in awe of her wisdom.

It’s easy for me to play the Experienced Mom card, as I sit back and sip my tea at playdates. Sure, I’m pretty relaxed about things now, but my kids are older than yours — two and four (although closer to three and five if I’m being honest).

If I’m sometimes too laissez-faire about parenting, or give you the impression that you’re worrying too much, I apologize. I mean, you probably are worrying too much — don’t get me wrong — but we all do in the beginning. It’s cool.

I’m making it look easy now, because it is easier. I’m in an easier season of parenting than you, at the moment.

But don’t fret, because when my kids are driving me crazy as bratty teenagers, your kids will still be sweet, obedient little eight-year-olds and nine-year-olds. Then I’ll be the one feeling lost and overwhelmed, and you’ll be the one sipping tea and nodding sympathetically.

Heather Clarke is a freelance journalist who married her high-school sweetheart and spends her days chasing her spirited four-year-old son (Dexter) and feisty two-year-old daughter (Charlotte). She dispenses advice, rambles about leggings, and talks about all things parenting over on her blog: www.LaptopstoLullabies.com.