I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be present.
Not the kind of present we talk about in parenting advice—the kind where you put your phone away, get down on the floor, and soak up every moment.
I mean the kind of present that is hard.
The kind where you are sitting right next to your child and, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’re counting down until bedtime.
I’ve been struggling with that lately.
I love my son more than I could ever put into words. I want to kiss him and hug him and hold him close all day long.
But he doesn’t always want that from me.
Sometimes he pushes me away. Sometimes he hits me. Sometimes he bites me. He has a big personality and a big temper, and there are days when being around him feels… hard.
Really hard.
And I find myself struggling with something I don’t always want to admit:
I don’t always enjoy being around my child.
There. I said it.
And as a parent, that feels incredibly uncomfortable to say.
Because I’m supposed to cherish this time, right?
I’m supposed to soak it all in because it goes so quickly.
I’m supposed to enjoy the little moments.
But what happens when the little moments aren’t particularly enjoyable?
What happens when you’re exhausted, overstimulated, frustrated, and your child is having a difficult day for the fifth time before noon?
I love him.
That has never been the question.
But sometimes I don’t particularly enjoy the experience of being with him.
And lately, I’ve been realizing how much that brings me back to my own first year of motherhood.
A year that was incredibly difficult for me.
A year filled with anxiety and depression and so many moments when I wondered if I was doing any of this right.
There were times when I didn’t feel the bond I thought I was supposed to feel.
Times when motherhood felt more like an obligation than the beautiful blessing everyone told me it would be.
And now, when my relationship with my son feels difficult, I find myself looking backward.
Was this because I wasn’t there enough?
Did I miss something?
Did he feel that I wasn’t fully connected to him?
Did that first year change something between us?
And perhaps the hardest question of all:
Did I somehow cause this?
I don’t know.
I’m sure that first year shaped both of us in ways I may not fully understand yet.
But I’ve also been reminding myself of something I believe so deeply when I’m sitting across from another person:
A relationship is not defined by one chapter.
We are still writing ours.
My son is still learning who I am.
I’m still learning who he is.
We’re both still learning how to be in this relationship together.
And maybe that’s where repair comes in.
We talk about repair so much in relationships, but I think sometimes we imagine it as something that happens after a big rupture. An apology. A conversation. A moment where you say, I’m sorry. I wish I had handled that differently.
But repair can also be much quieter.
It can look like showing up again tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the day after that.
It can look like trying again after you’ve lost your patience.
It can look like offering a hug even when you’re not sure he’ll accept it.
It can look like sitting nearby when he doesn’t want to be held.
It can look like learning his cues.
Learning your own.
Trying something different.
And continuing to show him, over and over again:
I’m here.
I don’t know what our relationship will look like years from now.
I don’t know if I’ll look back on this season and laugh at how hard it felt.
I don’t know if I’ll wish I could go back and hold onto these moments a little more.
But I do have hope.
I have hope that relationships can change.
That people can grow.
That children can learn.
That parents can learn, too.
And that even when the beginning wasn’t what you hoped it would be, it doesn’t mean the rest of the story has to follow the same path.
Maybe I can’t change the first year.
Maybe I can’t go back and become the mother I wish I had been during some of those moments.
But I can be here now.
I can keep showing up.
I can keep learning.
I can keep loving him—even on the days when I don’t particularly enjoy being around him.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough.
Maybe repair isn’t about going back and fixing what happened.
Maybe sometimes it’s about building something new, one ordinary day at a time.
That’s what I’m trying to do.
And if I’m being honest, I think I’m going to keep reminding myself of that for a long time.
With love,
Emily
