I’m pretty sure that when I decided to become a parent, I didn’t sign an invisible scroll that read: I AGREE TO LISTEN TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE ABOUT MY OFFSPRING.

No, I’d never sign such a contract.

But I think the rest of the world has a copy of that scroll somewhere.  And, any day now, I think someone is going to march right up, whip it out and show me on my front overgrown pachysandra-ed lawn and reprimand, “See here?  You signed away your open ears RIGHT HERE!”

Ah, parenting…the topic I vehemently try to steer clear from within my writing, but I’ve found that it’s like trying to concentrate on something important while a kangaroo recovers from a bad acid trip in your living room.  It’s just not going to happen.

It’s very difficult not to listen to people who give you advice.  Somewhere, in the cavernous darkness of early parenting, some advice IS like a beam of light and truly is helpful.  Most of it, though, is nodding and silently replying, “Mhm, I haven’t thought of that!  Going somewhere air-conditioned since we don’t have central air when it’s 95 degrees outside?  WHAT A NOVEL IDEA!”

I sometimes wonder if I should invent a parenting card, or even better, A PARENTING LICENSE, and then flash it like a cop with a badge every time someone approaches me with a parenting idea.  That might make me millions.  I could invent an online course, a brief quiz, and if you pass, I’ll send you a card – ALREADY LAMINATED! – that reads: I’m an inventive, thinking, emotionally stable parent who is imperfect but still pretty great.  Lisa Factora-Borchers says so.”

WHO WOULDN’T WANT THAT IN THEIR WALLET RIGHT NEXT TO A PICTURE OF TOMMY JR.?

The baby industry is ridden with books, articles, and every kind of folded brochure that could possibly be made with graphs and suggestions on how to measure your child’s development.  Most days, I’m thankful for it. Most of my research comes from an eclectic grouping of books, internet, close peers, confidants, and family.  And not that Nick and I know everything.  Far from it.  But, we tend to be more on the relaxed side of parenting.  Right now, I feel the most critical piece of Isaiah’s development is his emotional stability and physical flourishing.  He should know his parents are attentive, supportive, and although a bit nutty, completely reliable.  The fact that Isaiah cries once every 78 hours and is in the 94% for length leads me to think that we’re doing a pretty good job of raising him.

But that doesn’t stop the shoulds of the world.

“Shouldn’t he be sitting up on his own now?”  Probably, but he’s a bigger kid.  Maybe he can’t even out his balance yet.

“Shouldn’t he be holding his bottle by now?”  Probably, but he puts his hand on it when he’s really hungry and pushes away when he’s finished.

“Shouldn’t he be rolling over by now?”  Yes.  He did once last week, so I think he’ll be ok to take the SATs when he’s a teenager.

“Shouldn’t he be eating more solids now?”  I’m not sure.  I think babies have a really good survival sense about them and he stops eating when he’s full, so I don’t force more solids if he’s not hungry after nursing.

“Shouldn’t he wear shoes in the summer?”  Yes, but he keeps sticking his feet in his mouth.  His toes are cleaner than his sandals.

I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again: parenting has made me more humble and increased my compassion by ten fold.  There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t see another parent and feel, however slight, a small connection to them.  Or at least, a smidgen of understanding.  When I see parents by themselves and trying to handle a stubborn car seat or piercing scream, I send a smile that I not only tolerate the line being held up by their kid or the disrupted quiet, I actually understand it.

The expectations we place on parents is, at times, impossible.  We want to see a child doing well.  Society wants to see children thriving at ever stage and age.  We want to secure their welfare.  Setting expectations and should-ing all over parents, though, is a far cry from ensuring the livelihood of their children.  If nothing else, it bring parents just a step closer to the proverbial noose hanging in the dark by their bed every night.  The noose is there, relentlessly, waiting waiting waiting for your neck.  It wickedly swings back and forth while you contemplate whether or not to step up and reel it around your throat.  The noose can be spelled in five letters: G-U-I-L-T.

“It takes a village to raise a child” is the most overused cliche in the parenting sphere, but I’d be hard-pressed to find a more profoundly true statement about child-rearing.  Indeed, a village of family, supporters, listeners, and positive cheerleaders are tokens of a happy family life.  Without these scaffolds, isolation and bitterness can begin to crust the edges of our smiling family picture and the “shoulds” begin to overpower a very simple but under-appreciated phrase: You’re a good mother.

Those four words, boring by the measure of my vocabulary until I became a parent, are some of the most touching words you can put together in the English language.  A small hug.  An arm slung over your shoulder.  A warm hand on your back.  A love pat on your hand.  That’s what these words feel like.

Because these four little words aren’t just about affirming the parenting style, it’s affirming your life choices made evident by a growing creature full of vulnerability, need, and dependency.  And when you’re trying your hardest to fill that child, when you’re trying to drop every ounce of love, life, freedom, and trust into that little being, those four words break down into one beautiful message that all new parents need to hear every now and again: You are enough.