Being a mom is an entirely selfless act.
It all starts when you get pregnant: the vomit, the zits, the cellulite that will never go away, the stretch marks, the no sushi and the no beer. Why did I sign up for this again? And then there is the birth, and all the goo that erupts from your lady parts, and the constant latch of a tiny baby suckling on your breast. Motherhood is some hard-ass work and freedom is a thing of the past.
Berlyn is a year and a half old now, and I am still struggling with being selfless. I am still stuborn with my thinking. I want my alone time, I want to be able read Anna Karenina without interruptions, while resting listlessly on a towel in the sand.
Instead I have sippys to refill, shoes to find, and diapers to change. My life is not hard by any stretch, and please don’t confuse this rant with complaining. Instead I am tragically admitting my shortcomings of how totally selfish I really am; How instead of reading The Hungry Caterpillar for the 87th time, I’d rather get a pedicure, and instead of making her lunch I want to take a yoga class.
I know I have so much to learn about motherhood, I am still very much a novice. But I tip my hat to those mothers who give and give, and expect nothing in return. They are truly my heroes and if you know one, make her a chocolate souffle cake with raspberry sauce, offer to clean her bathtub, and say thank you.