In the car last week, my son giggled from the back seat and said, “ooh, my tooth fell out”. Now he’s a real practical joker. I knew all the wobbly ones were already gone. He’s nothing but gums up front, so I assumed he was just kidding. Until his little hand appeared between the seats brandishing a tiny, bloody, left incisor. At which point, I went wobbly… and nearly hit a lamppost (just one reason I’m not a doctor).

Fine, missing tooth. I know this drill by now. Except this day he says he’s going to write to the Tooth Fairy asking for “gold pixie dust” instead of a dollar.

Huh?

Just like his friend got at school.

It’s five o’clock on Sunday. The Tooth Fairy can’t exactly write back and say, “Look kid, it’s a holiday weekend. You’re SOL on the pixie dust til the shops open up again.” Can she? At midnight, in miniscule script on a minute piece of paper, a note was crafted in disguised handwriting, explaining the current shortage of gold dust and that his patience would pay off with a surprise in the coming week.

Come Tuesday, between the usual frenetic rush of ferrying children to various activities, I manage to steal away to the plant nursery specialising in ‘pixie dust’, gleaned from other school mums, (who I blame entirely for this request!) What do I find? “Sorry, we’re sold out”. There’s been a run on these tiny jars of sparkles, not a one to be found.

Time to improvise. Luckily they had other miniatures. I chose a wee, fairy barrel before dashing to a craft shop to fill it with gold glitter. I would require another midnight note, after my son had told me why he particularly wanted this stuff… to explain that the gold dust cannot make you fly, contrary to what he might believe from movies (without qualified fairy supervision of course) so not to try it!

As I stood at the till, anxious and pressed for time, the lovely young sales assistant who had heard the tale of my quest, laughed, “Is this the craziness I have to look forward to when I have kids?”

Yes.

Not even the half of it. And when I was woken at 6.30 the next morning with glitter being sprinkled in my face, matching the trail that led from his bedroom to mine, was it all worth it? That gaping, toothless grin of his was so adorable I couldn’t feel chagrinned for the added sparkle — no matter how hard it is to get out of the carpet.

The things we do for our children. And half the time I wonder if what I’m doing is right. We can have the best intentions for helping them to be healthy, happy and secure, but most of what I actually do is guesswork. How much is enough? And when are we doing too much, creating burn-out and unrealistic expectations? Parenting is a kind of divine mystery to me.

I always wanted children, lots of them. Then I got one and realised how much work it can be. Nine months was nothing to prepare me for the complete and utter life change that happened the moment my son came into this world. I would never be the same. I had no previous concept of that level of responsibility… nor that magnitude of love. Purpose and priorities shifted, so did what I was willing to sacrifice — pretty much anything.

I completely disappeared, at least for a while. I just became mother: feedbag and personal slave to this demanding, gorgeous little creature that literally made my heart burst when I looked at him.

But parenting can be a thankless job. I think of all the sleepless nights I have caused my mother over the years, all that she’s done for me, all the personal sacrifices she’s made, most of them I won’t ever even know about. Things I’ll have taken for granted because in my mind, ‘isn’t that what parents do?’ It’s something that I will perhaps only fully appreciate as I do the same in turn. And I can only try to be as magnanimous about it and wish to make it look as easy.

The trouble is, I’m selfish and this is hard work! There are days when I feel I don’t have an ounce of patience left in me, that I have said the same thing a thousand times, yet I have to say it again, that the prospect of making another peanut and jelly sandwich fills me with dread. I want to leave the house without it taking half an hour. I want to remember what it feels like to be young and carefree. I want the Tooth Fairy to bring me some gold dust so I can fly away to some exotic place and just do exactly what I want to.

This is usually when I throw my own tantrum. I become the ugly, shouty mum I never wanted to be. I hear myself being churlish and petulant and doing all the things I’m trying to instill in my child not to.

Then in floods the guilt: for being this way and for losing sight of just how lucky I am. I torture myself with the question: ‘why am I not as calm and tolerant and ‘perfect’ as those other parents seem to be?’ (from the outside). And I shudder at the mere possibility that I could entertain resentful thoughts towards my son, when I love him so very much.

A very wise friend told me this week that she often felt the same when her child, now grown and graduated, was little. “I used to wonder when it would be my turn…? Then I came to realise that this was my turn.”

She said that making peace with this idea shifted her feelings and her whole parenting approach to make it work for all of them.

For anyone else who feels a little less than the perfect parent, some thoughts: Can we embrace the hard work and the rough days and accept that parenting is a learning curve for the whole family? Can we balance our sacrifices by ensuring we maintain personal integrity — restoring ourselves, making time for ourselves and getting our needs met? Reminding ourselves the need to stay happy, healthy and strong in order to provide our best for those we love. Can we role model for our children what, ‘a fulfilling life’ looks like? Can we remember, amongst the lunchboxes and nagging about homework, the joy and brevity of childhood and what is most important for us to provide for them? And may we never forget the delight of sprinkling a little pixie dust from time to time…

Julia Pitt is a trained Success Coach and certified NLP practitioner on the team at Benedict Associates. For further information contact Julia on (441)705-7488, www.juliapittcoaching.com.