When I was pregnant, my closest friend, Ted, the father of two daughters, warned me: The qualities you find most frustrating in yourself will be reflected back to you in your children. And this will be the hardest thing about parenthood.

I remember hearing it on my cellphone as I pulled into my driveway, pregnant, wearing some garish maternity tent, most likely eating some form of bulk cheese, and thinking "blah, blah, blah."

Or maybe I was thinking something more like, "Whatever, dude. That's some hocus-pocus hippie stuff. Thanks for sharing. I have cheese to eat."

The idea seemed so ludicrous: the notion that the bump in my stomach would one day be an actual person, a person with the capability of walking and talking and doing things to annoy and trigger me. Impossible.

Motherhood came as a kind of shock to me, and not in a TLC show way (I knew a baby was coming), but in a deep, emotional way. Until my child was a year and half old, I tripped saying the word "son" the way The Fonz couldn't say "sorry" or "love." I mean, I loved like I can't describe to you, but it took a while to really set in that I had crossed over from person to mother.

This little person was mine, or at least mine to care for until setting him loose on the world. His every rash became my concern and obsession. And as Ted predicted, there were my worst qualities, manifest in this tiny person, staring right at me. Indeed, it really is the hardest thing about parenting.

For example, if I am given a task I feel is just out of reach, there is a series of feelings that goes something like this: feel overwhelmed, crumble internally, cry, call a few friends, get a pep talk, regroup, tackle said challenge, do it again with absolute amnesia as to how I was able to handle the last challenge without stepping in front of a bus.

My son, even at 1, was demonstrating this very trait.

Even now, as he struggles to zip up his coat, he insists, "I DO THIS," even though we both know he kind of lacks the motor skills to attach the two sides to start the zipper. He gets annoyed, his eyes fill with tears, and I start the zipper for him and hold the bottom as he pulls it up. "I DID IT," he'll say proudly, so relieved he mastered something, so irritated he required help. From using utensils to playing with train tracks, if that kid can't do something right away, there's no patiently figuring it out. There is sadness, anger, panic and frustration.

And I feel like a huge hypocrite saying things like, "We don't throw our train when we get frustrated," because that's exactly the kind of crap I feel like doing — to this day. That's what Ted was talking about while I was stuffing my face with provolone, too stubborn and too hungry to take in his paternal wisdom. On the other hand, what could I have done with that knowledge?

Here's another example. I happen to be a crier. I'm a big weeper from way back. My son is also quick to cry, which is really sad until it gets to be really hard to take. Many times, I've been in tears, actually crying, as I'm saying the words, "We don't cry to get what we want. We use our words."

Thankfully, I have loads of compassion for these weaknesses in character. I invented them. I gave birth to them. And yet, as Ted predicted, seeing them acted out in front of me makes me feel worse than ever about the defects in myself I have yet to conquer. Of course, what do I do when I can't tackle something right away? Cry, stomp my feet, curse the world, be certain of coming doom, collapse internally and, like I'm doing now, reach out, tell the truth about my floundering and eventually figure it all out.

Until the next crisis.

Sorry, kid. But I did give you decent hair and above-average balance, so it's not all bad.

Teresa Strasser is an Emmy-winning television writer, a two-time Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year and a multimedia personality. She is the author of a new book, "Exploiting My Baby," the rights to which have been optioned by Sony Pictures. To find out more about Teresa Strasser and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.