There are many days when I wish that magic was real. In fact, I would venture to say that a least 75% of the time I wish this. When I get home from teaching teenagers all day to sit down on the couch for the first time all evening and .02 seconds later my son asks for more milk, I sure wish I could just accio that milk right to him. When my husband works late and I have already texted him ten thousand times asking for his ETA, that magic clock of Mrs. Weasley's would certainly come in handy. When I clean the entire house and turn around to admire my work only to see a gigantic mess spilling out of the playroom, magicking that crap right back where it goes would save some lives.
Alas, magic is not real. I have to pick my lazy butt back up off the couch and get the milk, my husband will have to continue to deal with my nagging texts, and the steady stream of toys constantly tripping all of us will just have to be picked up with regular ole muggle hands. Is it hard? Of course. Is it exhausting? Without a doubt. Is it worth it? Absolutely.
Parenting is hard, and unfortunately, there is no magic involved. I wish that I could truly convey to the teenage girls in my school just how hard it is. It is a constant battle of the wills, a constant black hole of little sleep and a lot of crying (and I'm not just talking newborns here), and a constant flood of inner turmoil raging inside of me screaming "ARE YOU DOING THIS RIGHT?!"
The worry of whether I am raising my children to be responsible, loving adults is the hardest part of this whole motherhood thing. And the worry never ceases. This parenting gig is an important job, and you only get one chance to do it right. Am I molding my daughter to be respectful and honest? Or am I stifling who she really is with my constant nagging? Am I teaching my son to control his rage? Or am I snuffing out all of his passion and intensity? I don't know the answers to these questions. I won't know until these two little people that God intrusted me and my husband to raise are out living their own lives, and by then, they are no longer mine to mold.
I suppose I have to believe that the OTHER moments show me that I may not be the perfect mom, but that I am doing something right. When we're all taking a moment to veg and B snuggles up next to me and rubs my face absently while he watches TV. When A excitedly asks if we can sit on the steps before heading into dance so she can tell me every detail about her day. When I peek into one of their bedrooms in the evening and my husband is cozied up in bed with them both reading them a story, using all the funny voices that are so uncharacteristic of who he seems to be to others. Those are the moments when no spells or charms are needed, because the real magic is right in front of my eyes.
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