The Story Behind Raising Children
Something I’ve learned while writing is that the best time to come up with stories is when you’re body is occupied, but your mind isn’t. Folding laundry, washing dishes, cleaning the bathroom, and going on walks are all great for this. Thus, several of my poems and stories come from thoughts I have while doing chores.
One day while washing dishes, after scrubbing a pot down, I noticed some food stuck to it. I continued washing it, but thought “how do I know it’s not clean?” The answer seemed obvious; I could still see food on it. But what about the food I couldn’t see? I figured I’d have to assume I got everything and hope for the best.
Being the weird conglomeration of thoughts and emotions my mind is, it moved to parenting. “Isn’t that basically parenting?” it asked me. “Doing the best you can and hoping you got every spot?” I supposed it was.
I’d been sitting on the idea for at least two years before I finally put it into words with Raising Children. My son turned nine at the end of June, and it’s been a difficult nine years. There was a time in third grade when I got confused by a “thought question” – a question that didn’t have a right answer, but was meant to start a class discussion. I got confused, annoyed even, because I like having a right answer, like knowing what I’m doing. With parenting, there is no right answer. I was thrown into unfamiliar territory from the start, and got upset when I thought I was failing.
It brought me comfort to think of raising children like washing dishes. No matter how tough it gets, no matter how badly I think I’m doing, I remember that it’s impossible to be perfect. I’m going to make mistakes, but that doesn’t mean I’m a bad parent. It just makes me human.
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