The Cult of Difficult

One evening in September, I found myself standing in a Lululemon at a mall in Sevierville, Tennessee.

My wife was browsing the store with great interest; Lululemon has a high approval rating with her (as it does with many women in their 20s) and we don’t have one at our mall back home. So, she was enjoying this opportunity to peruse the brand’s pricey – yet stylish! – leggings.

Our 1-year-old son, however, was not having as good of a time. The longer we were in the store, the louder his grumbles got – to a point where he was drowning out the sounds of Billie Eilish coming from the store’s overhead speakers. I haven’t been a parent for very long, but I’ve been one long enough to discern when my son’s crankiness isn’t my wife and I’s problem… just my problem. And my wife deserved this opportunity to not only shop, but to do so free of our son adding background vocals to “Bad Guy.” Accordingly, I took the reins of my son’s stroller, wheeled him out of the store, and we proceeded to meander around the sidewalks of the outdoor mall.

During our walk, I noticed someone approaching from the opposite direction. When this individual came into focus, I realized it was a young father pushing a toddler in a stroller, just like I was. As we passed, we exchanged an affable, knowing glance, which communicated a single word.

Same.

Moments like that have occurred with regularity since becoming a parent. And yet, despite their frequency, they still have the power to surprise me.

My comprehension of what it’s like to be a parent is expanding, incrementally. During the nine months that I prepared myself for parenthood, and then in the 12 months that followed, my understanding of the role was that it solely involved providing exemplary care to my child, alongside my wife. However, in the time that’s passed since my son’s 1st birthday this year, I’ve come to realize that there’s more to it than that.

Simply put: Being a parent doesn’t just mean being around your kid. Being a parent means being around other parents. And being around other kids.

This was never clearer to me than on the aforementioned trip my wife, son, and I took to Tennessee, along with other family members. We went to the Volunteer State to stay in Gatlinburg, which has earned a reputation as being a good vacation spot for families. For us, it’s a reputation it lived up to, as my family and I found a variety of things to do during our time there, from exploring a mountaintop parrot preserve to devouring the savory goods at a monk-themed (monk-themed!) donut shop. At each stop, we inevitably crossed paths with other families, who were out looking to make memories, just as we were.

Earlier in my tenure as a parent, whenever my wife and I made a decision to take our son to do something fun, it was an insular experience; my focus was entirely on my son and how he was receiving the situation. However, as time has passed, I find that my focus has broadened – to a point where I’m not just aware of my son, but the other sons in a space, along with the daughters and all the parents. And I’ve realized that whenever I make a decision to do something with my son, I’m also making a decision to be in the company of other parents and their children.

It’s a good place to be. Catching a glimpse of how other parents interact with their children is useful; for me, it’s a way to judge things I’m doing well and things I can improve on. It’s valuable as a glimpse at the future, too; seeing kids who are slightly older than my son helps give me an idea of what he’s going to be like at 2 or 3 years old.

My biggest takeaway, though, is that it’s a place where there’s a sense of camaraderie. For instance, when I see a toddler running wild at the zoo, trailed by an exasperated parent, I relate to that. Or when I spot a kid making a mess at a restaurant, and overhear their mom or dad sheepishly apologizing to the waiter, I empathize with them. And when I spy a parent beaming because their little one is spellbound by Christmas light displays in a park, I know how heartwarming that feels. Parenting is a shared experience, and a powerful one at that.

Ultimately, when you become a parent, you gain a child, yes. But that’s not all you gain. You also gain entrance to a community of people (“The Cult of Difficult,” as I jokingly refer to it on rough parenting days) who know exactly what you’re going through.

I should know; I crossed paths with one of those people at that mall in Tennessee.

And he and I weren’t strangers. We were kin.