I breathed him into the world. He came out in a rush and lay on my chest, eyes wide open, taking in everything around him, trying to make sense of this strange new place he found himself in. His little fists clenched, ready to take on any foe, he stared at my face with an expression of trusting bemusement as though he knew me but he wasn’t sure how.
My second son.
Today that baby boy turns 18. Between that moment and this, there have been a million tiny milestones as he and his brother inched their way closer to adulthood. Each step forward has come with layers of parental labour, whether it’s teaching them to sit, or walk, or eat solids, or use a toilet, or tie laces, or hold a pen, or read a book, or play a sport, or make friends, or have manners, or manage conflict, or deal with pressure, or apply to uni, or helping them figure out who they are.
Children are works of art shaped over years by clumsy, inexperienced craftsmen who are simply doing their best not to damage the raw materials they have to work with. Just when those apprentice artists start to feel that they have finally mastered their craft, the teenage years arrive and our work of art turns into a messy mix of materials that we don’t know what to do with.
Sometimes we make mistakes. We do our best to repair them. Sometimes they make mistakes. We do our best to provide loving guidance. Sometimes you feel certain that despite all the love, labour, and dedication to making these beautiful creatures the best humans they can be, you have failed. Yet, even carrying the burden of that sense of failure, we keep on trying because that’s the promise we emotionally signed as that tiny baby lay on our chest.
And, then, all of a sudden, the day arrives when they are legally adults. You have, by hook or by crook, got them there. Of course, they’re not the finished article. That work of art — in whatever shape it is now in — still needs final finishing touches. Only now, you have to make tweaks subtly, gentle nudges so slight that they barely notice. But little by little, the polishing pays off and they turn into good people who are entirely unique, ready to dazzle, or at least, not offend the world.
Parenthood is an incredible journey of highs, lows and infinite work. But its magic lies not just in how we shape our children, but how we ourselves are shaped and reshaped as a result. Our hands and faces will be etched with lines but it’s our hearts and minds that are most transformed. Parents are both the artists and the work of art, constantly being remade.
What a privilege to experience this gift.
