I had a colorful childhood, I’d say. Clothes smelling of frost, a clean house, and a mom who was always tidying up after us and scolding us for not keeping things neat.
Even though I was little, I remember my parents making soap at home. Mom would grate it and put the laundry to soak. Jumping ahead to today, I try to figure out where our parents found so much time. There are plenty of days when I wish we had that luxury too: time to enjoy the good moments with our kids, time to make everything at home, from bread, tomato sauce and delicious zacuscă (traditional Romanian food, basically a roasted vegetable spread) to pickles and cakes… time to just be, without trying to be perfect. Nobody is.
And just like that, twenty-something years later, here I am, a parent, of course, with a need for order inherited from my mom, trying to understand why this little human doesn’t get that she has to PUT THINGS BACK WHERE THEY BELONG. Before kids, I cleaned on weekends, and it helped me put my thoughts in order along with the house. Then I saw how one adorable little person can turn a house upside down in ten minutes flat.
My little marigold’s first outings after the rain truly frayed my nerves. I kept wondering: what do the other parents think? It seemed like only my daughter went through every puddle in sight, covered in mud from head to toe. And, Lord, how much I nagged her. Even more interesting were the days when my mom came to visit: I felt an incredible pressure. Somehow I knew she had expectations: she would have wanted the little one to understand that you’re not supposed to get dirty or step in puddles, and that made me feel like I was failing as a parent.
I think this is one of the things we talk about too little today: when you become a parent, you don’t stop being someone’s child. When my parents (the grandparents now) walk through the door, sometimes I turn back into little Alex and reopen the box of feelings I had back then. It took me a very long time to understand what was happening to me and why. It took me even longer to handle those moments, and there are still days when little Alex seems to win a few battles.
Back to the puddle, the kids, and the inner child: as painful as it was at first, because I wanted her to stay clean, but also healthy (some puddles were even tasted), over time I learned to let the child’s joy in the moment win. Clothes will be washed, there are plenty of detergents and stain removers that will get the marks out, but my little marigold will always remember that mom was in a bad mood and wouldn’t let her play the way she wanted.
So in recent years, the puddle has won. And I think I have too, right along with it.