When my kids were infants, there was no measure of effort that was too much for me to take on. Several  mornings, I woke up on the nursery floor with my hand through the rails of the crib, having fallen asleep holding my daughter’s hand to comfort her. I was so excited to be a mother. I used to make plan after plan of family activities that we could do as the years progressed. Plans for sunny days and rainy days. High energy games and low energy games. Traditions we could establish for every season and every holiday. When I fell into my “post-post-postpartum” depression, I’d look at those documents I made years before and just feel sad and tired.

Things didn’t suddenly get better one day, but somehow, over time they did. I can’t point to anything in particular, but I know that at some point I went from dreading playtime, to once again excitedly planning time to spend as a family and with each of my girls individually. “Together time,” we call it. We schedule the time, and I’ll do with them whatever they’d like…complete surrender.  I think what happened is that I first came around to recognize parenthood for the self-sacrificial burden it is, then I chose it…neither of which was easy or instantaneous. I’m reminded of a beautiful song called Ulysses, by Josh Garrels, in which he writes of Odysseus’ effort to return home to Penelope. He sings, “true love is the burden that will carry me back home.” I used this song in a poetry lesson a few years back, and the kids questioned, “Why ‘burden’?” Because though burdens can bury us or drive us away, eventually, some call us back and to a better version of ourselves. And that feels really good…in a way that creature comforts never could. 

Taking up the burden of parenthood is a day-by-day decision. I find myself recommitting to it all the time, especially when things feel like they’re starting to slip away…my daughters are arguing more than usual, we’re not getting enough sleep, or I’m getting too distracted with other things vying for my time. I take a step back and assess the situation like a gardener would a wilting plant. What is going here? Then I think, I listen, I research, I plan, I strategize, I experiment. I’ll hold a family meeting or a special night like “smoothies and movies”, I’ll plan a one-on-one date with my daughter, try a new mediation technique, have a heart-to-heart conversation, or rework my schedule and routines to make room for what needs to be done. Sometimes things get better, sometimes they don’t, but it’s never for naught because this magical thing happens every time that I commit myself through action: my desire for them grows. In The Little Prince by Antione de Saint-Exupery, the prince finds himself a long, long way from home and is greeted by a beautiful rose bush. Every rose looks and smells exactly like the little rose he cultivated back home, but here the roses are countless. Still the bush is no consolation for his homesickness. It only makes him weep for the little rose he left behind because that rose is his, the one he nurtured every day.  When I was struggling with motherhood, I thought I’d recommit myself when the joy returned, but, to my surprise, the joy returned when I started recommitting myself. 

Now that my kids are older, a preteen and teen, I still feel sad and tired at times, but it’s different. I know it will pass, and I know that that’s just part of parenthood. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’m doing something wrong. Some days I try really hard, and it pays off. Some days I don’t try, and it works out anyway. On those days, everything comes together.  The hours continuously unfold deeply satisfying moments of connection with my daughters. Some days I desperately try, and everything blows up in my face. And some days I just mess up and go to bed with regret and 30 ml of Nyquil. Parenthood isn’t pretty.  But now when I feel sad and tired as a parent, I take it to mean one thing for certain: I am my girls’ mother through and through. Only a parent would love enough to feel the hurt and discouragement of things not working out, just to come back day after day determined to try again, to work at it a little more in the face of disappointment.

This kind of perennial investment is well worth the trial. I’ve learned that if you plant good seeds over and over again, eventually they bear good fruit, and often when you least expect it.  Your children will suddenly come to you for help with a problem, or show grace to their sibling—or to you. They’ll take up a responsibility that you didn’t ask of them, or make a good choice when it’s difficult. They’ll surprise you with a mature perspective on a complex matter or comfort you when you thought that was your job.  You can look back at the arc of their growth over time and feel encouraged to keep at it. It’s also never too late or too far to make things better in a relationship with a child.  I’ve learned this both as a mother and as a daughter. Though I hardly saw my father growing up, last summer, at 40 years old, I had an impromptu camping trip with him that strengthened our relationship in ways I never saw coming. Even a little investment, a little late, goes a long way.