Waxing Philosophical

I remember, very clearly, the exact moment in which I realised that parents were people too.

I was 18 years old, sitting in the back of a tiny white sports car next to a bilingual Italian toddler, about to go over the alps from France to Italy, and I was talking to her Mum as though she were my peer. It suddenly struck me as crazy that this cool lady, just a few years older than me, should have given birth to, and now be solely responsible for, a human child.

This shocked me, to suddenly realise that parents were people too. More than that, that they were people who were like me, who had no more idea about raising kids than any other new parent. I remember looking at the toddler in shock and thinking, how are you still alive? How have you made it this far? And then looking back at her mum and thinking, aren't you afraid constantly? How do you know what to do?

Ridiculous as it may sound, I think we can all agree, that as children, we really believe that our Parents are not like our friends, they aren't like our aunties and uncles and they certainly aren't like our teachers or grandparents. Our Parents, were our Parents. That was all there was to it. They existed because we existed, not the other way around. 

Growing up, I trusted implicitly that my mum could make me feel better, that she would never let me go hungry, that I would always have clothing and books and that I'd never get too sick or injured that she couldn't fix it. I believed that my dad could protect us from everything, that we would always have at least some money, and that regardless of whatever happened, nothing would go terribly wrong because they were my Mum and Dad. They were my parents. With them around, everything would always be ok.

I see the same expectation in Little Beans smile, in her soft spoken baby conversations that she has with me, running her fingers over my face and cooing and gahing while we both stare into the others eyes. I see the unquestioning trust she has in me that everything will always be alright for her, and while my heart melts in those moments, at the same time I find myself dying from the fear of what I now know to be true.

I am just a person. I will do everything I can, but what if that is not enough? What if I can't be there for her? What if I can't make her better? What if I can't protect her from that stranger?

Poor Bean has her first cold, and last night, at 1:30am, developed her first cough. It's still unbelievable to me, how visceral my reactions to her pain are. When she cries, I tense up. When she is in pain, my heart literally aches. When she started coughing, each cough was like sandpaper inside my chest, and the fear in my stomach doubled with each one. Is it whooping cough? Croup? Pneumonia? Do we need to take her to the hospital? And with all that, the far too familiar feeling of anxiety, what if I can't make her better? What if, what if, what if....

Being a parent does not make you superhuman. You don't lose your previous identity by becoming a Mum or Dad. Being a parent simply makes you love someone like you never thought possible, and you live in constant fear of not being enough for them. In short, being a parent, is terrifying.

Three Mummies and a Baby