Do you ever get the feeling that being a mother is like the longest babysitting job you ever had and you’ve just fallen asleep on the couch and the REAL parents are going to walk in any minute and give you your $1.75/hour (yes, I am THAT old)?...
My kids look like their father, they have the same gestures that he does and their carnivorous nature they definitely did not get from me. It’s clear that they are his and I know deep down in the memories of pain that I had a part in bringing them into this world, but some days I honestly wonder how they got here.
Don’t get me wrong - we bonded, we nursed, we laughed, we cried. Or rather, the babies laughed and I cried, but who is this person I’ve become with a new name and a new list (or a list of books with lists) of responsibilities and expectations?
I was never one of those people that always dreamed of having children, imagining what my offspring would look like paired with this guy or that guy. No, my life goal was actually to join a convent – I was looking into the whole Catholic thing when I met my husband to be, and well, you know what they say about the best laid plans…
Needless to say, we married and came to that moment when we had to choose if it was to be us, or a sleepier, poorer us. We are definitely sleepy and poor but happy so I guess we chose wisely.
The kiddlings look at me some days like they’ve figured me out, like they KNOW that I’m not quite cut out for this mothering gig and that maybe, just maybe someone else should really be in charge.
I’ve blinked and pinched myself and dunked my head in cold water and I’m still here and well they’re still here too, so looks like we’re all here to stay. So I should probably get around to admitting to myself that I wasn’t just yo-yo dieting for three years, that smell on my sweater really is spit up and that mommy definitely isn’t the worst name that I’ve been called.
