Will It Ever Get Easier? A Mom And Teacher’s Honest Tips For Tough Parenting Days
Last Tuesday, I stood in my kitchen staring at a puddle of oat milk seeping into the counter crack, a discarded cereal bowl on the floor, and my 4-year-old son Milo screaming that he would not, would not wash his hands before breakfast. I was already 10 minutes behind, had a back-to-school night meeting for my kindergarten class in 45 minutes, and my own coffee was knocked over and soaking into a stack of permission slips I’d left on the table. I leaned my head against the cabinet, and the only thought in my head was the same one I hear from parents at least once a week: Will it ever get easier?
By the time I dropped Milo at daycare, scrubbed the milk out of the counter grout, and pulled into the school parking lot, I’d almost pushed the thought out of my head. But 10 minutes after I walked into my classroom, a first grade mom named Marisol pulled me aside by the water fountain. Her sweatshirt had a coffee stain on the sleeve that looked almost exactly like the one on mine, and her voice was tight when she asked me the same question, word for word: Will it ever get easier? Her 7-year-old son Leo has dyslexia, and every night reading homework turns into a screaming match. She’d tried tutors, apps, fancy workbooks, nothing stuck. She was sleeping five hours a night, arguing with her husband about how to handle it, and she was done.
I remember three years ago, when Milo was born, I thought easier meant no meltdowns, no forgotten homework, no fights about bedtime or broccoli or putting shoes on. I thought once he hit a certain age, everything would just click, and we’d glide through days like the smiling families in the grocery store ads. I spent a year reading every parenting blog going, trying every new trick, getting more frustrated when the battles didn’t stop. What I’ve learned since then, both with my own kid and hundreds of kids in my classroom, is that easier doesn’t look anything like what I thought it would.
The first thing I changed was small, and it didn’t cost anything. I used to pack our morning schedule tight, leaving exactly 20 minutes from wake up to walking out the door. That’s enough time if everything goes right, but everything never goes right. Milo would stop to stare at a squirrel on the windowsill, or decide his socks had lumps that needed to be adjusted for 10 minutes, and I’d end up yelling, and he’d end up crying. Now I set my alarm 10 minutes earlier. That’s it. 10 extra minutes isn’t enough to get anything big done, but it’s enough for a detour to look at the squirrel, or a 3-minute meltdown about wrong socks, without me panicking that we’ll miss the bus. I stopped expecting every day to go according to the plan, and I built a little extra space for the mess.
For Marisol, the advice I gave her was just as small. She was sitting next to Leo every single night for 20 minutes, correcting every word he misread, reminding him to sound it out, checking off every box on his reading log. He hated every second of it, and so did she. I told her to try three specific changes: First, move homework from right after school to after 15 minutes of running around the front yard. He’s been sitting still at school all day, he needs to get his energy out before he can focus. Second, you read the first four pages of his book out loud to him, before he has to read anything. That takes the pressure off, and lets him get comfortable with the story before he has to perform. Third, when it’s his turn to read, have him read to the family dog instead of to you. Don’t correct any mistakes unless he asks for help. Just listen and clap when he’s done. No new tutors, no new workbooks, just shifting a few small routines.
Two weeks later, Marisol brought me a photo at drop off. It was Leo sitting on the back porch, his golden retriever curled up at his feet, reading the back of a Cheerios box out loud. He didn’t even think of it as reading practice, she said. He just wanted to tell the dog what the ingredients were. They’ve only had one screaming match about homework in two weeks. That’s not a perfect win. Some nights he still refuses to read, some days Marisol still leaves the house feeling drained. But it’s easier, for the first time in a year.
Last week, Milo washed his hands before breakfast without me asking. He just climbed up on the step stool, grabbed the dinosaur soap he likes, and did it. I stood there shocked, because for six months it was a fight every single morning. But yesterday, he threw a 15-minute meltdown because I cut his toast into squares instead of triangles. So it’s not like the hard parts go away completely. Some days are still messy, some days I still lean against the cabinet and ask that same question.
What I tell parents now, when they ask me that question, is that easier doesn’t mean the hard stuff disappears. It means you learn to stop fighting every small battle, and you make small changes that take the edge off. You don’t need to fix your kid, or overhaul your entire routine, to make things better. You just need to add 10 minutes to your morning, or shift homework to after playtime, or let them read to the dog instead of you. Those small things add up faster than any big, fancy strategy I’ve ever heard of.
This morning, I stepped on a stray Lego brick on my way to the bathroom, and I yelled loud enough to wake Milo up. He came stumbling out of his room, crying because I woke him up too early, and we both stood there in the hallway grumpy, me with a sore foot and him with messy bed head. Then he grabbed my hand and said he wanted to show me the new spaceship he built after dinner last night. We stood there for five minutes looking at it, pointing out the laser cannons and the cargo hold, and we still left the house three minutes late. It’s not perfect. Some days it’s still just as hard as it ever was. But it’s easier than it was, most days. And that’s enough, for now.
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