Being a parent can be hell on your self-esteem. When my children were toddlers and tantrums were frequent, I would often wish for some magical HR person to knock on my door and tell me it was time for my review just so I could hear someone say “Good work!” How can a job be so insanely demanding yet have so little social value? (Except as a consumer of course. I have a complicated relationship with Target.) 

I used to think there was a right way to parent. Or at least a general direction. Before I became a mom I approached parenting like someone shopping for a religion; I would find my philosophical path and head down like Dorothy on the yellow brick road certain that despite some distracting poppies, I would arrive at the Emerald City. 

I had more reason to believe in Oz than most. My mother founded a new-parenting resource center in Los Angeles called The Pump Station. As a child Lamaze classes were taught in our garage. My younger sister and I would help by laying out squishy matts leaving space for giant posters featuring a very hairy birth canal at various stages of dilation.  We were rewarded with antacids my mom provided for the pregnant women who had heartburn (they were cherry-flavored and delicious). Watching my mother teach parents how to give birth and breastfeed, I believed parenting was a job for which you could study and prepare. This overconfidence only grew when I became a teacher. I was with 5-, 6-, and 7- year- olds all day and thought “I’m ready, I’ve GOT this!” 

Ten years and countless parent-fails later, I now accept there is no great and powerful Oz. There is no right way to parent. No amount of education can prepare you for the crushing self-doubt you may face when you see your child struggle, or when you realize you live exclusively in clothes conducive to sleep. This has left my self-esteem a bit battered but created a deep appreciation for when people share their own struggles and points of view. The experience is much less scary and sucks a lot less when we don’t do it alone.