Becoming a Patient Parent

Our household has experienced a major milestone in the past few weeks. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let’s just say clean, dry underwear was involved. Finally.

The wait for this development was long and arduous. I tried to approach potty training without expectations, without worry. But my natural tendencies toward a) control freak and b) worrywart made it just about impossible. So I read every book I could find on the subject. I tried sticker charts and rewards, fun underwear and not-so-fun timetables. I cajoled, I applauded, and yes, sometimes I lost it and yelled.

And then one day, he stayed dry. All day. And the next. And the next. And — not to jinx myself — almost every day since.

It’s a lesson that I keep learning: my son, Will, has his own timetable.

You’d think I would have gotten the message in the last weeks of my pregnancy — which were weeks 40 and 41, by the way — this child was going to do things his way. I was still working and decided my last day on the job would be my due date. After all, baby was coming at any moment, right? Not quite. And while I was glad to have a few days of rest between work and baby, 13 days was a bit too much. I moped around the house, tried old wives’ tales and reread every pregnancy and birth book I had.

And in the end, when the midwife decided it was time to give Mother Nature a little help, my labor was fast and furious, as if he were saying, “Oh, that’s what you want me to do? Sure thing, let’s go!”

With every developmental leap my son Will has taken, he’s followed a similar pattern.

Not ready.

Not ready.

Not ready.

Not ready.

Ready, and off like a shot.

When he learned to walk, there were no tentative steps followed by bruised knees. He cruised around our living room for months, holding tight to the furniture, and then when he felt sure he had the motions down, he let go and walked. Soon he was running; and to this day he is very sure-footed.

His speech development was the same. At 18 months, he had very few words. At 2 years, just five or six. Speech therapy and time did the trick — which one had a greater effect, we’ll never know. These days, at 3.5, he talks nonstop, and you’d never guess he’d been delayed.

Sleep was a more difficult journey, but he followed the same arc. Despite all our efforts, he didn’t sleep through the night once until well past 2; and then he just … did. He’s slept through almost every night since.

And so all my nervous energy, all my frenzied research and my gnashed teeth … they don’t make a difference. He’ll take the next step when he’s ready: writing his name, riding a two-wheeler, reading aloud. And though he’ll need my love and support, he doesn’t need me to hover.

It’s a scary thought, especially for a former straight-A student like me. If he isn’t reading by 5, he’ll never get into college!

But it’s also freeing. I know he’ll grow and learn at his own pace, so instead of worrying about the when, we can have fun with the how and the where and the why.

I can help him practice writing his name using each crayon in the box; we’ll create a rainbow’s worth of W-I-L-L and plaster them around his room. We can watch the Tour de France together to help him learn how the big guys ride. And if he isn’t reading by 5, well, that just gives me more time to enjoy the sweet pleasure of reading to my boy, with his head resting on my shoulder.

And then one day — not so very far off, if you think about it — he’ll turn to me and say, “Hey, Mom. How about I read to you?”

Nearly four years into parenting, and I’m finally getting the message: Chill out. He’s got this.

How have you handled being a more patient parent?