Even if I ever wanted to, there’s no way that I could deny this child as my own.
Just look at her.
Noon in pajamas, with a chocolate almond milk mustache and eating broccoli for breakfast after lounging around literally all morning reading and watching TV. And that stamp on her forehead. It’s just an innocent little stamp but all I can think of is Charles Manson and Benicio Del Toro in Fear and Loathing.
“Who said anything about slicing you up? I just wanted to cut a little z in your forehead. Nothing serious.”
Oh. Dr. Gonzo. Good stuff.
What other five year old requests reheated broccoli ever? Let alone for breakfast. The other one wanted pizza. Ha!
And she says she’s going to have two kids when she grows up. One she’ll name Stinky Pete and one Renfield (flies, master…spiders…little lives). And she’s going to live with her current preschool teacher Miss Heather.
My kids are awesome. I love their brilliant minds and all of their quirks. Yesterday was a hard day. I realized something yesterday. Well two things.
The first is that I need to start keeping track of columns that need revision before filing them at work. I usually write a first draft and file it then go back Thursday or Friday and polish it a bit. I totally forgot to go in and polish this one. I was out of focus, and I’m concerned perhaps a bit too honest. Oh well. I stand behind it. It’s all there. It’s just poorly crafted and a bit rambling. Oh well. It’ll be fine.
The other epiphany was a much tougher one.
I love my children desperately. But I don’t enjoy being a mother. And those two truths are not mutually exclusive. People want women to think they are, but they’re not. It doesn’t diminish your love for them, it doesn’t invalidate it, to say that you don’t enjoy parenthood.
It’s a hard duality, but it’s my life.