You know that moment when you’re bouncing your screaming newborn at 3 AM, and suddenly you hear your mother’s voice coming out of your mouth? “Babies need routine!”
But then five minutes later, you’re channeling your free-spirited aunt who always said schedules were for trains, not children.
That was me, eight weeks into motherhood with my first, standing in my kitchen with spit-up on my shoulder, realizing I was having full-blown arguments with ghosts from my childhood.
Nobody prepared me for this. Not the baby books, not the birthing classes, not even my well-meaning friends who’d gone before me. They warned me about sleep deprivation and diaper blowouts, sure.
But they never mentioned that becoming a parent would crack open every single parenting decision I’d ever witnessed, experienced, or survived, forcing me to examine each one under the harsh fluorescent light of my own crying baby.
When feeding time becomes a philosophical crisis
Take something as simple as feeding. My mother made everything from scratch when I was growing up. Every meal, every snack, every birthday cake.
The kitchen always smelled amazing, but there was this underlying tension, this anxiety that hummed beneath the homemade bread and simmering soups.
Now here I was, trying to breastfeed while simultaneously researching organic baby food recipes on my phone, feeling that same anxious energy creeping into my shoulders.
Was I doing this because it was genuinely what I believed was best? Or was I just recreating my childhood kitchen, complete with the stress that came with it?
The verdict changed by the hour. Morning me would think, “Yes, homemade is love!” Afternoon me, exhausted and covered in pureed sweet potato, would think, “Maybe those organic pouches aren’t the enemy.”
By evening, I’d swing back to defending my mother’s choices while simultaneously questioning why everything had to be so perfect all the time.
The emotional availability exam you didn’t know you signed up for
Then there’s the emotional stuff. My dad worked long hours and provided everything we needed materially.
Our dinner table was never empty, but our conversations never went deeper than “How was school?” and “Pass the potatoes.” He was there but not really there, if that makes sense.
Fast forward to me holding my baby during those endless newborn days, and I found myself overcompensating wildly. I’d narrate every single thing we did together.
“Now we’re changing your diaper! Look at that bird outside! Are you feeling happy? Sad? Gassy?” I was determined to be emotionally present in a way my father wasn’t, but was I swinging too far the other direction?
Some days I’d catch myself being almost performatively engaged, exhausting both of us with my constant emotional check-ins. Other days, depleted and running on two hours of sleep, I’d go quiet and functional, just getting through the tasks.
And in those moments, I’d feel this weird understanding wash over me. Maybe my dad wasn’t emotionally distant by choice. Maybe he was just tired.
Structure versus flexibility: The daily battlefield
Being a middle child meant I watched my older brother rebel against every rule while my younger sister got away with murder. I learned to navigate between structure and chaos, but now I had to pick a lane for my own kid.
Should bedtime be military-precise like it was in my house? Or should I follow my baby’s cues and let things flow naturally? Monday me would implement a strict routine.
Tuesday me would throw it all out because the baby seemed happy playing at 7:30 PM. Wednesday me would panic about creating bad sleep habits. Thursday me would remember that one friend whose kids never had bedtimes and turned out fine.
The truth that nobody tells you is that you’re not just making these decisions once. You’re making them over and over, defending them to the jury of your past, pivoting when they don’t work, then defending the pivot.
Finding your own way through the chaos
What saved me was finally understanding that this audit wasn’t actually about reaching a verdict.
It wasn’t about declaring my parents right or wrong, or proving I could do better. It was about consciously choosing what to keep and what to leave behind.
I kept the family dinners but ditched the surface-level conversation rule.
We eat together most nights, and yes, sometimes dinner conversation is just my five-year-old describing every detail of a bug she found, but that’s real connection happening right there.
I kept my mother’s love of cooking from scratch but released the anxiety. Some days we make homemade playdough and bake our own crackers. Other days, we eat store-bought snacks at the park and call it good.
The world keeps spinning either way.
I learned to be present with my kids without the exhausting emotional performance.
Sometimes presence looks like deep conversations about feelings. Sometimes it looks like sitting quietly together, each doing our own thing, comfortable in the silence my childhood home never quite achieved.
Wrapping up this beautiful mess
That first year of parenthood? It’s like being handed a mirror that shows not just your reflection, but every generation that came before you. Some days you’ll love what you see. Some days you’ll want to smash the mirror and start fresh. Most days, you’ll do a little of both.
The hourly verdict changes aren’t a bug in the system; they’re a feature. They’re how you figure out what kind of parent you want to be, separate from what you experienced but informed by it.
You’ll take the sourdough starter from your mother but leave the stress. You’ll take the stability from your father but add the emotional availability.
And sometimes, at 3 AM, when the baby finally settles and you’re too tired to audit anything, you’ll realize that your parents were probably doing this exact same thing.
Standing in their kitchen, holding you, arguing with the ghosts of their own childhoods, just trying to get it right. Or at least right enough.
That’s when the verdict finally becomes clear: We’re all just doing our best with what we know, when we know it. And that has to be enough, because tomorrow the audit starts all over again.
