I burst into tears at work the other day after reading this old blog post from Renegade Mothering about accepting that the woman you were before becoming a mother is dead and that's it's completely okay because there is rebirth into this new and beautifully different life. I don't think I've read something that articulated this feeling of change so well.
I know this so-called motherhood is hard. At least it's hard for me some days. Yes, I admit it. And I'm pretty flippin' lucky too. No, I'm VERY lucky. I have my one adorably chilled out, goat-cheese-eating, well-behaved little gal with gloriously chunky, pinchable thighs and a boundless thirst for giggles, new words, and bubbles. Her soul is as light, carefree, and beautiful as the very bubbles that make her giddy.
So I feel guilty for saying that it's hard sometimes. How can that be? What the hell is my problem? It was all supposed to be so very perfect, right? No. Hell no. Life is not perfect. Not by a mile. Life is messy and giggly. Life is long commutes and long kisses goodnight. Stomach bugs and tummy tickles. Life is a piping hot plate of homemade sin sprinkled with just enough joy dust that every wayward bite is flawed perfection.