My buddy turned three the other day.
Parents always warn you that time flies, to not blink, to write down everything you can, to take all of the pictures. They are both right and wrong.
It does not feel like three years ago that we were taking Austin home from the hospital, and I was driving 10 mph below the speed limit, thinking every bump on the road might do something terrible to the little baby we put into the car seat for the first time, because we probably put him in wrong, and goodness was he so dang small and fragile.
That feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. (In a literal sense, it was more than a lifetime ago, as Harper was yet to be born)
Because we have managed to keep one child alive and healthy for three years, and another alive for one, when our friends are expecting or become new parents themselves, they’ll sometimes ask us for words of wisdom, anything we’ve learned that we want to share, anything that might help them navigate the terrible, wonderful uncertainty that is parenting.
I have no real answers, other than a made-up word Delaney and I call Efforting.
That is all I’ve really come to learn as a parent: Just try.
Make every day a 24-hour exercise of Efforting.
Parenting is hard, a new, impossibly intriguing puzzle every day. What worked yesterday will probably not work today. Those bacon and eggs he smashed for breakfast on Monday? Wants nothing to do with them on Tuesday. Yogurt bowl with peanut butter and berries he’s loved since he began eating solids?
HOW DARE YOU PUT PEANUT BUTTER MIXED IN WITH THE YOGURT, DADDO! I NEVER WANT PEANUT BUTTER AND HAVE NEVER EVER WANTED PEANUT BUTTER IN MY YOGURT BOWL!
Little terrorists, these kids.
And, of course, what worked for your son for a bit might not – probably will not – work for your daughter.
The only thing left is to try.
To put in some effort.
To get on the ground with him and play his imaginary games. To put down the book and play with bulldozers and diggers in the dirt pit in the front yard. To turn off the Ravens game and enter his world.
To be there.
To go “fishing” on the back patio, “grilling” up your catch of “rainbow trout” and “turtles” (I don’t know why we always catch turtles) and whatever else he may haul in. To read the same book until the words are etched into your brain. To lay down next to him in bed until he falls asleep for no other reason than because he asked you to. To go to the same construction site and watch the same machines and marvel at his undying fascination. To play football after dinner every night, or baseball until he cries in frustration, or volleyball in the garage, even though you coached volleyball the entire day and would like to perhaps not see a volleyball for an hour or two.
To just try.
That’s it.
That’s all I’ve learned, and, if I could project into the future, probably all I’ll ever need to learn. That’s all he ever seems to truly want, deep down, more than yogurt bowls with or, heaven forbid, without peanut butter, more than eggs with the proper amount of cheese in them, more than Lightning McQueen on the TV or Elsa on the speaker.
He just wants effort.
And that — that, my son, I can provide.
