I don’t remember when I decided parenting would start to feel manageable.
Not easy. I’m not an idiot.
Just… less like guessing in the dark all the time.
Like, eventually you’d wake up and feel a bit steadier. Like you’d know what to do without running through twelve different outcomes in your head first. Like, there’d be some kind of rhythm you could actually rely on.
We just got back from a cruise. Brought our son with us. Which, in hindsight, feels like something that should’ve required a license or at least a short written exam.
It was chaos. Not the fun, “haha, what a memory” kind. Just straight-up, daily chaos with a buffet.
Trying to get him to eat felt like negotiating with someone who had just discovered food and immediately didn’t trust it.
One morning, he happily ate half a chocolate chip pancake like it was the greatest thing he’d ever experienced. Same pancake. Same plate. Ten minutes later, he’s holding a piece of it at arm’s length like it personally offended him, then drops it on the floor and says, “All done,” like we’ve both agreed this situation is over.
Lunch was worse.
We built a whole plate around the one thing he definitely liked – cut it up, set it in front of him like we’d cracked some kind of code – and he just stared at it, took one bite, and then leaned back in his chair like he was done with the concept of eating for the day.
And then there’s the running.
Just… constant running.
At one point, he took off down a long hallway on the ship – one of those never-ending ones with identical doors – and he’s laughing, full belly laugh, not even looking back. Just gone. I’m jogging after him, trying to look calm because you’re not supposed to be the guy sprinting through a cruise ship, but also very aware that he has no plan and no brakes.
I finally catch up to him near an elevator, where he has fully stopped to inspect a button, like this was the destination all along.
Which raises a pretty fair question:
If you love running away this much, why do you hate the Kids’ Club?
We tried dropping him off once.
It ended the same way you’d expect – him standing there, suspicious, crying, holding onto us as if we’d just betrayed him in a pretty serious way.
This place has toys. Other kids. Staff whose entire job is to deal with exactly this type of chaos.
Nope.
So instead, we chase him across a floating city while pretending we’re still on vacation.
And then there was Sint Maarten.
We’re walking back to the ship after being out for a bit. He’s tired, we’re tired, everyone’s just trying to get back on board without incident.
We pass the wheelchair ramp – the accessible entrance – and for reasons known only to him, he locks onto it.
Stops walking.
Looks at it.
Looks at the ship.
And then just completely falls apart.
Full meltdown. Immediate.
“Ohhh nooooooooo!! My ship!!”
Like we had just missed it. Like it was pulling away without him. Like this was the end of a long and tragic story where he almost made it.
He’s crying. Real crying. The kind that turns heads.
And we’re standing there trying to explain, “No, buddy, that’s not our way on. We’re still getting on the ship. The ship is right there. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”
Doesn’t matter.
For a solid minute, he is convinced his ship has left him behind, and this is now his life. And somewhere in all of that, it hits you.
This is it.
This is the version of parenting I thought would’ve smoothed out by now. Not the big moments. Not the milestones people post about.
This.
Trying to figure out what your kid will eat today. Wondering if you’re handling things right while he sprints away from you like a tiny, happy fugitive. Talking someone through the emotional fallout of a ship that is very much still there.
Making decisions on the fly with zero confidence and no time to think them through.
And realizing he’s learning everything from you anyway.
Not some polished, got-it-together version of you. Just you.
The one who’s tired. The one who loses patience over a plate of food. The one who says “buddy, come back here” for the hundredth time, already knowing it’s not going to work, but saying it anyway out of habit. Hope. Delusion. Hard to say.
You start noticing it in small ways.
The way he looks at you when something goes wrong. The things he copies that you didn’t even realize you did. The way he trusts you completely, even when you’re pretty sure you’re winging it at a level that shouldn’t be allowed in public.
That’s the part I didn’t expect.
Not the exhaustion. That part makes sense.
It’s the weight of being the reference point. For everything.
What’s safe. What’s normal. What food is acceptable this week.
There’s no moment where someone steps in and says, “Alright, you’ve got it now.” No checkpoint. No level-up. Just more days. More guessing. More tiny, loud, chaotic situations where you’re doing your best and hoping it counts for something.
I think I kept waiting for parenting to feel more under control. More certain. Like something I’d eventually grow into properly.
But maybe this is it.
Not easier. Just ongoing.
A mix of getting it right sometimes, getting it wrong plenty, and chasing a small laughing person down a hallway while explaining that his ship has not, in fact, abandoned him.
And maybe the closest thing to it getting easier is this:
You stop expecting it to.
The CJBuzz 