by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

Few things in life go on forever. Time. The universe. CVS receipts.

Parenting. That one’s endless too. The “hardest job you’ll ever love” is not for everyone, and that’s a good thing, because few jobs come with such massive responsibility, or have the potential to affect things so long after you’re gone, as this one. One slip can reverberate for generations. Think about it too much and it’s almost enough to dissuade us from having children at all.

But it’s not, is it? We keep on reproducing, to hell with the consequences. Most of us are up to the challenge. Some aren’t.

I have always thought I was up to it. I’ve done my best. But it’s not been enough. My kids have their struggles, and I’m not able to fix them. All I can do is be present and ask, “How can I help?”

In those moments I feel I’ve failed.

The concept of generational trauma has been rattling around in my head for more than a decade, ever since my divorce laid bare just how fragile our familial connections can become under the most terribly ideal circumstances.

I’ve tried to repair the damage, and by some measures I’ve succeeded. But some of those scars still linger. I wonder if time really does heal all wounds. So far, nope.

Is there even a way to measure success when it comes to parenthood? Obviously, our kids surviving the gauntlet of modern childhood — with fentanyl everywhere and gun violence being the leading cause of their deaths — would be benchmark number one. But those horrors are largely out of our control. Hell, it’s all out of our control. The real dark secret of parenthood, the one nobody wants to tell you about when you’re considering taking the leap, is that the job is akin to trying to catch a bucket of sand in the palm of your hand. Things are going to fall through the cracks, even in the healthiest households. Stuff is happening in their bodies and minds that we can’t know, no matter how present we are. It begins when they’re born and ends only when our life is over, presumably. Though I imagine if there is an afterlife, our worrying follows us there too.

That’s grim, yes, but for those who do stick around to do the job, it’s true.

When our children suffer, we suffer along with them. “You’re only as happy as your most unhappy child,” and all that. That’s the gig, like it or not.

I was 21 when my first daughter was born. I met and fell in love with her mother later, when she was almost 2. Shortly thereafter, I found I loved her too. I was and am her stepfather. She’s about to turn 40 now. I’ve been “dad” since she was in preschool. And she’s my daughter, regardless of what 23andMe says.

I delve into this backstory because I am thinking about how knowledge can really do a number on us. I was a kid myself when I was helping to raise her in the late 1980s. I thought I was doing a good job. But I came to realize later I was only half invested. I put myself first. I was a decent father, but I wasn’t all in. I didn’t know how to get there at that point in my life. I’ve since had three more kids, and my experience with them has made clear how little I knew about being a father in those early years. I’ve apologized to my eldest for being a flake. She doesn’t see it that way, she’s told me, and I hope it’s true.

But I know the difference between being there with my kids through every bump, trauma, and setback, and my experience as a young father. I’ve always said my oldest was “easy.” The truth is I was too disconnected to feel those bumps with her. So, when my other three children started having their challenges, again right about the time of my divorce, my initial analysis was: “Kids are all different, DNA and genetic inclinations, etc.” But while all that is true, it’s not what was happening; I was simply present to see and feel what was really going on, and it was horrific. My youngest three kids were unnecessarily put through so much adult bulls&%t as a result of their parents’ divorce.

Things are better now. They’re doing well, but not altogether okay. I wonder if they ever will be. I wonder if anyone is.

Early on I bought into the soft focus fiction that parenthood had its up and downs, but was ultimately a comforting enterprise populated by happy, well-adjusted folks. The more parents I got to know, the more unrealistic this ideal seemed. Most of us are doing what we can, humbled at best, shattered at worst.

Naivety certainly has its place. I’m glad I was unaware of the true emotional and physical demands of parenting when I was a bright-eyed 23-year-old. Most everyone seems to be in a glorious state of blissful ignorance at that age, and that’s good. How else would the species survive if not for that youthful idealism, and a little obliviousness? Mother Nature works in mysterious ways.

What’s the point in all this kvetching and truth-telling? To let parents know they are not alone. Your kid’s mental health struggles, drug issues, anger problems? We’ve been there. Nobody’s “normal.” We’re all a mess. Reach out early and often to friends and/or professionals for help. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. It’s true it never ends, but don’t forget you’re doing great work in the most important job there is. Chin up, buttercup.