There's been a lot of buzz the last few days about moms spilling how they parent high, drunk, tired. How how they escape from the tedium and endless need to be patient in ways that shock. And how they say that others do it...but just won't admit it.

Yeah, I get that.

But then again, no.

I don't.

I was a fairly uninhibited woman once upon a time. I slept in clean rumpled sheets as late as I wanted on Saturday mornings. I kissed the ones that made my insides churn with lust.

I went to Greece on a whim, and crashed my motorbike into a man's yard. Then stayed for dinner and a sly sunset, watching the stars over glasses of wine.

I have no regrets.

But the day I became a parent, I knew my place in the pecking order was irrevocably altered - at least for the next 18 years.

Maybe because I was in my mid-30's. Maybe because Bear was born after so many almost-babies died. Maybe because... I dunno. I don't know why.

I don't know why I always knew it would be hard. Sometimes even impossible. And that I would need to be sober, grounded, and sometimes even on my knees to get it done right.

Here's my secret, and I know I can't be the only one. Sometimes I hate being a mom. I hate it with a passion. It's a frigging nightmare at least once a day.

But I never hate him.

And I never hate me.

And I never wish it was easier.

Nothing worth it ever is.

I know that sounds like I am being willfully ignorant of the realities some parents face. Or judgmental of the choices other parents make. And neither of those things are true.

But sometimes I feel like people make it seem that parents who do their best, fall into bed with not enough sleep, and get up to do it again are somehow Pollyanna's who deserve to be mocked.

And it pisses me off.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:50 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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