It's uncool to be obsessed with your kids.
But sometimes (ok, most of the time) I am.
Sometimes Motherhood totally sucks and makes me feel like a failure in all kinds of ways. I try to be honest about it, try to blow up the myth of Motherly perfection at any chance I get.
Motherhood can go suck eggs…if it weren’t for the kids.
I don’t want to love my kids more than anything else in life, that’s not very productive. I preach about self-care, me-time, investing in other relationships, identity and future. Who am I trying to convince if not myself?
When I kiss their little foreheads, sometimes I smoosh a little too long. It’s like I want our skin to feel combined again.
Today I caught myself looking longingly at a pregnant woman (how quickly we forget!) My last pregnancy was nausea for the first three months and back-pain for the following six. Then I had a traumatic, emergency Caesarian, and a newborn with reflux. I was so tired for the first four months of her life that I couldn't tell time after 3:00PM.
You hear about this movement, a rumbling of honest Mums who want to contribute other things to this world. Careers, hobbies, relationships…ect. More than just babies. I want to be, and am, part of it- most of the time.
I’ve never been more passionate about anything else in my entire life. That’s saying a lot because most people would describe me as passionate to the point of intense (or even abrasive).
If you were to ask me what my greatest accomplishment in life was, without hesitation it would be my daughters. If I die tomorrow my only regret would be not seeing them grow. I’m totally okay with all other decisions I’ve made in my life (even the wrong ones).
The most visceral, surreal, moments of my life were their births- for a multitude of reasons. In comparison, I was lightyears calmer and collected even on my wedding day. Falling in love is an incredible feeling, it’s a huge hit that eventually settles-in but with children, it’s the opposite. The love starts small and as you get to know them, and watch them become little people, your love grows. It grows so big that sometimes thinking about it is hard to handle without getting anxious. Or maybe it’s just me.
I know I will fail so hard at this, many times (I already have), and I accept that. Even now, I don’t live up to their standards “grandma is nicer than you, Mom.” Still, I vow to keep doing my best.
My confession here is that sometimes I am loving it more than I let on. I am secretly enjoying rocking my baby to sleep, vice-hugging my four-year-old until she wiggles away, imagining crawling under their perfect skin or even better, them crawling back into mine. It’s creepy, I know.
My children stole my soul so I must fight, daily, to get a small piece of it back. I need to keep some for myself so I can maintain a bit of self-respect and at least a shadow of my identity for when the day comes when the girls leave me. They will think they no longer need me.
Even as a 37-year-old Mother of two, I still need nurturing. I’ve learned to provide it to myself so I don’t have to rely on others (or so I won't get let down because of my impossibly high standards). If I can do this, remain whole, un-needy, I can demonstrate that to my daughters that they are okay, with or without me. That way they won’t have to learn this skill so late in life. I should probably start by not letting on just how obsessed I am with them. But probably they already know.
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