These are the things no one says.
I am tired of the color of the playroom walls.
Crying makes my organs moan and my brain ache.
I leave my kids in their cribs as long as I can get away with.
I miss leaving the house whenever I want.
I need a nap.
I need a drink.
Sometimes I wear earplugs.
I’m not always that interested in the things my babies do.
I miss laying around in bed for no reason.
Sometimes I wish I could go on dates, or at least go out, get tipsy, and flirt with people.
Breastfeeding is incredibly hard and takes more endurance and will than anything I’ve ever done (and I have a freaking PhD, wrote a dissertation, cared for my mother for 18 months while she died of a brain tumor, and spent 3 months on bed rest).
My favorite times are when I read books or write.
I am stubbornly refusing to give up my identity, Mommy is just one of many names I call myself.
Often friends and relatives are more excited to see my babies than I am.
Often friends and relatives are way more excited to see my babies than me.
Feeding babies solids is boring, not to mention messy.
My kids want to play with me, but I’m writing this blog.
When my daughter crawled for the first time, I was vaguely aggravated.
I bathe my babies as infrequently as I can get away with.
I spend a lot of time surfing the web looking into events I can’t go to.
I am jealous of my single friends.
I am relieved when anyone else is around.
I frequently feel paralyzed by the terrible, blinding fear that something will happen to my babies.
Still… I have no regrets.
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