When I’m having a difficult day with my children, I always feel completely maternally inferior when I read another woman’s love post of adoration or declaration of "wonder" about her children. I usually roll my eyes and think "Of course she loves her kid, she’s on
tons of DRUGS!" But then I calm down, mist up, and realize I too am
on tons of drugs (mostly legal).
Truthfully, I prefer to laugh
with the cranky soul-sisters who have to dip their heads (mouths open)
into wine vats just to survive the evening hours. But sometimes I wonder if my Mrs. Tough-Cakes act gets in the way of my soft lovin’ feelings toward my fellow travellers — children, friends, people starving in Africa. Because occasionally even when they are as cute as apple dumplings on top of a cream pie (my kids, not the starving people), I feel like there’s a film over my heart as I brace for the next tantrum or explosion of maternal frustration.
You can imagine my surprise when the other day I found myself smiling like a PTA President with a bloodstream full of Zoloft literally oozing love and kisses and adoration for my daughters. It seems that now that I get to leave the house a few days a week to use my brain and
talk to people who don’t force me to make them sandwiches 30 times a day, we’re having a mommy-daughter honeymoon and I’m really enjoying them. Really. I’m practically ready to sign up for goddamn Gymboree. Not quite, but almost. Next thing you know, I’ll be knitting wee pants and sewing Halloween costumes while wearing an apron. I even helped them make caramel apples the other day. Me. The Queen of I Hate All Things Domestic.
I don’t want to sneeze or blink or say "Betty Crocker" for fear that this will all blow away. My daughters are so beloved and sacred to me. It’s just that I’ve often been too tired and worn and addled to admit it.