Breaking the Cycle

Being a parent has been an extremely triggering experience. Before the girls were home, I’d been to years of therapy and spiritual direction. I’d filled up journal after journal after journal with all of my reflections and insights, and I’d read them back over many times to process and reflect on all the things I’d learned. I’d even earned a Master’s degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling and become a Licensed Professional Counselor.

If anyone was ready to deal with the triggers of parenting, I was certain it was me.

And I’m sure you know the rest. Kids came home. They were loud. They were active. Messes were made. Opinions were expressed. The vibes I had so carefully curated with just the right colors and decorations and toys, were destroyed. Clothes I had so carefully folded and organized in anticipation of their arrival, were unfolded and wrinkled and thrown haphazardly back into drawers. Brand-new books, again all so thoughtfully chosen and organized, were pulled off shelves and scattered. Storage shelves with their adorably coordinated cube totes were dumped out and the contents everywhere. To my collection of carefully chosen toys with just the right levels of stimulation, were added tons of tiny, random pieces of junk toys from McDonald’s Happy Meals that the girls brought with them from their foster home.

And then, there were snack wrappers everywhere. There were shoes and socks everywhere. There were rolls of Scotch tape pulled completely out of their dispensers and used everywhere they didn’t need to be used. The once-perfectly organized scrunchie and hairbrush drawer was empty every time I needed something. The toilet paper roll was unspooled more times than I can count. Soap bars were smashed and broken in half. Wet towels were constantly left balled up next to the sink or on bedroom floors. Toothpaste globs were on the counter. Dolls were soaked when they were left in the rain overnight. Band-Aids, Neosporin, and waterproof medical tape became a daily necessity.

Chaos was constant. And I absolutely hated it.

The chaos itself, maybe I could have dealt with it. If I could have left the house. If I could have locked myself in my room. If someone else could have bandaged my child’s wounds, if the cleaning fairies could have swooped in and picked everything up and found all that mysteriously disappeared, maybe I could have coped. But, sadly, that didn’t happen. Nope. The adult in the house was me.

And my husband. Who was born to be a dad and didn’t mind the daily things I hated with a passion - packing lunches, making grocery lists, overseeing baths and breakfast and tooth brushing and shoe-finding. And although I was immensely grateful to him for doing all these things so I didn’t have to, I also felt like an absolute failure as a mom. These are things moms are supposed to do, right? Moms are supposed to do the daily parenting tasks that keep the ship afloat, while dads go to work and then come home and play for 30 minutes with the kids and everyone says, “What a great dad!” I didn’t believe in this stereotype. Until I totally did. Until I felt like a total failure as a mom and felt like my poor husband was being forced to do these miserable tasks and what a hero my girls must see him as while they have zero respect for me.

Growing up, my mom was certainly the one to oversee our daily tasks. My dad has left the house before sunrise for as long as I can remember, while my mom was always the one getting us through our morning routines. I remember my dad being very present when he got home from work - we would play, rough house, ride our bikes alongside him while he went for runs. I don’t have many memories of playing with my mom, but I know she was always there. And growing up, I idolized my dad. So when I became a parent, I didn’t set out to become my dad, but I did seek to become the parent my kids would gravitate towards. I wanted to be the parent who was super present, super involved, super attentive. But I quickly hated the daily tasks. The ones that moms are typically associated with. So, I spent a lot of our first few months feeling like a failure that I couldn’t do all of it, and I especially felt like there was something wrong with me for not doing what other moms could do.

Noise. Busyness. Constant activity. Kids’ defiance. Messes in the house. So many demands to meet. Always feeling like I didn’t do enough. Working myself to the bone and still there’s so much more to do. Finishing the things on my to-do list and then the list magically starts over. Making a constant, conscious effort to stay connected to myself and my needs, and then fighting the guilt to actually meet those needs while other things that “need” to be done, do not get done. Always wondering if I’m enough for my kids, wondering if their childhoods are magical enough, if they’re happy enough, if they’re secure enough, if I’m setting them up for success, if I’m passing along my own wounds to them. Feeling like a failure when I need time away to relax and recharge, while my husband stays home and takes care of them. Feeling guilty when I get home after a long day at work and feeling like I should spend time with them, and truly wanting to spend time with them, but also knowing I desperately need to take care of myself too.

It is so difficult. It never ends. It constantly changes. And so many childhood wounds keep coming back.

I so want to break this cycle of generational trauma. I don’t want my girls to grow up with the same anxieties and self-criticisms that I have. And in making the intentional effort to break this cycle, I experience so much anxiety myself.

The efforts are worth it. The fruits are paying off, I see them. But the constant effort is constantly draining.