Cinderella Syndrome
Photo Courtesy of Micah Klassen
BY MICAH KLASSEN
A few weeks ago, during a text conversation with a Mom friend, I jokingly told her that she could call me “Cinderella”. We were updating each other on how our days were going and what part of the mothering routine we were wading through, and I was feeling pretty down about the fact that the boys and I would be stuck at home . . . again.
Earlier that morning, my husband and I had rushed everyone out of the house into cold, miserable weather to make it to a doctor’s appointment on time, leaving a trail of mess behind us in the process. Our youngest son was due for his eighteen-month shot and after successfully making it through the appointment with only a few tears shed, we decided to celebrate his bravery with a coffee stop at Tim Horton’s before going our separate ways.
But as you may have guessed, this well-intentioned plan ended with a runaway toddler chase, inevitable meltdowns, and both of us wrestling resistant bodies back into car seats before the coffees had even been half drunk. So after a quick kiss goodbye from my husband, I heaved myself half-heartedly into the driver’s seat and glanced in the rearview to confirm a niggling suspicion — both boys were displaying obvious signs of a head cold after having had the flu only a couple weeks prior. I sighed, wrestling with the disappointment of having to pull out of playgroup plans yet again on a day I’d really been looking forward to some adult interaction. And to make matters worse, I’d had a pretty rough anxiety attack earlier in the week which I was still navigating the aftermath of, mentally and emotionally.
While I sat waiting at a stoplight on the way home, staring through the rain splattering my windshield and listening to one of my children wail loudly “I don’t want to go home!” I felt what I imagine Cinderella must’ve felt on that crucial night when everyone else was enjoying themselves at the ball and she was stuck at home, cleaning. Bitterness, frustration, despondency . . . it bubbled just under the surface like lava, ready to erupt. I resented being the one to go home to face the mess, the dirty dishes, the laundry piles. I resented the fact that I was the parent who had to endure my son’s wailing for the entire drive home; that I was the one charged with responding to his difficult emotions patiently and lovingly, despite the fact that my own needs for space, connection, rest and stimulation were far from fulfilled. I resented being the one having to shoulder the emotional, physical and mental load of supervising for another long, dreary day.
Hence the somewhat dark reference to my friend.
Even now, as I read back over what I was feeling, I fight the urge to minimize — to dismiss it in the name of ‘privilege’ or ‘overreacting’. But I think it’s worth noting that postnatal anxiety and depression are common traits of early motherhood for a reason. In 2020 when our youngest son was just six months old, we decided to move countries. We left sunny, humid Sydney — our home of eleven years — and made the long journey to Vancouver to be near my husband’s family; the plan was originally just to visit for six months in the midst of COVID lockdowns but travel complications arose which forced us to stay indefinitely, and we moved into a tiny basement suite in the suburbs. This is where I’ve spent numerous nights hunched over my computer writing, after the boys finally drift off to sleep.
I struggle terribly with the winters here. The endless grey days, the high precipitation levels, the cold . . . oh man, the cold! Winter in Canada inevitably means a ton of time indoors, and that’s something I find really challenging with the boys at the ages they are now — almost two, almost four. Their energy feels relentless! Of course, we’ve learned to find our rhythms and adapt, but some days over the past three months I’ve felt like I’m operating in pure survival mode. I flail around feebly for motivation just to get dressed and do my hair. There have been moments where the sheer amount of effort it takes to leave the house (my youngest absolutely hates putting on clothes, or getting a diaper change, for that matter) has felt overwhelming and I’m all too aware of the resistance that awaits me at every single turn. I rotate through feelings of exhaustion, irritability, loneliness and intellectual and creative frustration; even just getting this piece finished and sent off has felt like a fight whilst dealing with sick kids, very limited personal time, fluctuating anxiety levels and new parenting challenges that are leaving me emotionally thin at the end of each day.
It’s kind of ludicrous to think that the household load, plus parenting load, plus lack of social interaction, plus lack of stimulation, plus any other challenge that may arise will equate to anything positive, and yet there’s this invisible pressure to have things appear just so, isn’t there? There’s dissonance between what I would prefer the world to see — me, clothed in a shimmering ball gown, my ‘positive parent’ badge glinting triumphantly in the chandelier light — and the reality of what I find when I look down at my chipped nails and dry skin, when I behold their little faces looking expectantly back, the endless laundry, stained clothing, the crumbs everywhere.
Recently, I was scrolling through Instagram and came across a set of “parenting reminders” that read, “Children should not be burdened with making us happy, nor blamed for making us sad or angry. Children are not responsible for how we feel. We are.” While I agree with this in theory, it got me thinking about how such a concept really outworks in the nitty unpredictable grit of everyday life. All the moments when I’m feeling anxious or exhausted and my child’s behavior rubs me the wrong way, or triggers a response before I have time to pause and think it through. Yes, my children shouldn’t be held responsible for how I feel, but their behavior will certainly (and regularly) contribute to how I feel. In other words, ‘positive parenting’ is easy when I’m feeling positive and energized, but when I’m not — well, what then? How do I keep showing love, when I’ve just borne the physical brunt of a two-year old’s intense and fickle emotions for the past two hours? How do I show patience when I feel like I’ve absolutely drained that barrel to the dregs? How do I balance the contrasting needs of a two and four year old on one schedule, and give them both the best of my attention and time? How do I even look after myself while I’m so busy anticipating their needs?
In this season, I’m coming to terms with the fact that my role requires a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, and it’s really really HARD some days. But I’m also learning to accept that reality without succumbing to the urge to polish, or resolve, or tie a bow around it; I wish I could be a completely grounded, positive, emotionally stable person every minute of every day, but I’m not — I get overwhelmed by the load regularly, and just accepting this - that’s the difficult part.
I’ve started meditating to help with my anxiety and my virtual coach has taught me that it’s more healing to practice acceptance than to try to avoid or ignore scary thoughts when they arise; I’m learning to label these wandering thoughts “thinking” which helps me not to get lost in the thought, but to simply acknowledge it and let it pass by. This lowers the risk of it spiraling out of control, and I’ve found this to be a very helpful practice. It’s in the moments when I’m honest with myself about my fears and questions, doubts and disappointments that I can gather the strength to move forward, to keep choosing love even on the darkest days, without letting them swallow me.
The fairytale aspect of unquestionable love for my children most definitely exists, and even though my tendency is to share the moments that reflect this — the laughter and cuteness and moments of ease — these are only one side of the story. I remind myself that my dark days don’t negate the light ones or make the memorable moments any less beautiful, as I learn to hold both dark and light in balance.
I believe wholeheartedly that my boys should feel loved and safe in their home and within the boundaries of their relationship with me, and I try really hard to deliver consistency as a parent because I want them to benefit from the security this provides. But while I intend to parent in an affirming, understanding way, this isn’t always what plays out. I’ve failed many times to respond with patience. And I know for certain I’ll fail again. I also know that being a ‘positive parent’ isn’t as simple as pinning a shiny badge on my lapel for all the world to see. Relationships (and love) are messy, organic, fluid, unscripted, and full of mistakes and disappointments . . . they’re not a static concept, nor can they be simplified into some easy three-step instruction guide. Love is a constant, moment-by-moment invitation I have the privilege of responding to, even while on the 4th or 5th or 6th or 100th attempt. Love has the power to prevail in any circumstance, and this is what constantly grounds me. Love is a choice, it’s an opportunity that is always there, even after I’ve failed.
So for me personally, positive parenting looks like apologizing to my child when I realize I didn’t respond in a loving or patient way. It has meant asking for help from family or friends when I’m feeling overwhelmed or anxious. Sometimes it looks like seeking out professional help, or taking medication, rather than trying to just “be strong” and internalize some of the things I’m dealing with, mentally. Other times it looks like sitting on the floor, taking deep breaths and reminding myself what I want my boys to remember most before projecting frustration onto them. Sometimes it means putting on a TV show for them so I can journal or paint or write poetry for half an hour, and get myself into a clearer headspace. Sometimes it’s just learning to recognise that I’m human, and fragile and fallible, and that in order to support their needs as best I can, I also must respect and prioritize my own. So I workout at home, I meditate, I try to take breaks when they’re offered; I read and learn whenever I can. A lot of times though, positive parenting looks just as much like falling asleep on the couch with my youngest little boy snuggled against me, watching Blippi, and making banana bread with my eldest at 5 p.m., because I promised.
MICAH KLASSEN was raised in New Zealand and homeschooled by her mum, who was the first to spark a love for creative writing in her during primary school. That spark quickly morphed into flame — writing is such a cathartic expression for Micah and has helped her through some very difficult seasons. In 2010, she moved to Australia, fell in love and married her Canadian sweetheart — They now have two babies and Micah is doing her best not to fall off the wild rollercoaster ride that is Motherhood! Currently writing from Vancouver, Canada.