Editor's Note

Sometimes I just hate being a parent.

Like last month, when my four-year-old son got thrown from his horse.

After I realized he was OK (he had the wind knocked out of him) and I was OK (can you say heart attack?), I had to do something every fiber of my being told me not to do:

I had to put him back on the horse.

And at that moment I hated being a parent.

I hated having to tell my beautiful little boy, the child I worked so long and hard to bring into being, whom I love more than life itself, that he had to get back on that animal because it was the only way he would learn not to let fear stop him from doing something he loves.

What I really wanted to do was to clutch him to my breast and say “No, sweet potato bun,” (yeah, he’s going to love me for that nickname someday) “you don’t have to get back on that nasty ol’ beast. You just stay right here and let mama hold you and protect you from all of the nasty evil beasts of the world!”

But of course, that wouldn’t teach him anything, and as a parent it’s my job to teach. Because I can’t protect him from everything, as much as I’d like to do so.

And that’s another thing I hate about being a parent: I can’t control my children’s world. I can’t coddle them, smooth the way, make everything perfect. Because if I did —assuming it were even possible— it would be the worst thing for them. It would rob them of the knowledge, skills and life experience they’ll gain from muddling through the muck, struggling with strife, pushing through the pain, and all of the other difficulties that help us grow into strong, independent, creative, and disciplined adults.

Way back before I had kids, I assumed my offspring would be miniature versions of myself. I assumed they’d want to do all of the same things I did as a kid. I assumed they wouldn’t be interested in sports and that, if they were, said sport would be something harmless like competitive flower arranging.

I assumed wrong.

My daughter popped out of my body with a riding crop and spurs. Despite being only eight, she effortlessly soars over three-foot jumps. My son entered the world with a hockey stick, puck, roller blades, and a scooter. The bike, sans training wheels, came a couple years later. If it has wheels, a blade, hooves —basically, anything fast, sharp or dangerous— he’s all over it.

Those are not my genes, I can assure you. I am not sporty. I am not daring. I am not at all ambitious when it comes to physical exertion.

But it doesn’t matter what I am. (Or, in this case, am not.) What matters is that I give my children the opportunity to be what they are — or want to be.

And sometimes —a lot of the time— that’s excruciatingly difficult.

It means I have to bite my lip instead of lecturing my children about the dangers of every activity they embrace. It means I have to encourage them to swing to the next monkey bar, swim to the far buoy, run to the finish line — even though I’d rather they simply sat next to me where it’s safe and secure. It means I have to pick them up, dust them off, and tell them to get back at it, even when I’d rather they just call it a day and go home to the security of their beds.

It means I have to put my baby back on a horse and tell him it’s going to be OK, even when it’s not OK for me.

Because this isn’t about me. It’s about them. I cannot allow my fears, my insecurities, my very personality to overshadow theirs. As their parent, I have to encourage them to be themselves — to walk, run, skate, or ride away from me to embrace what makes them happy and fulfilled.

And that’s probably what I hate most about being a parent: I have to let them go.