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Your baby, that baby that you see right there with the beating heart and the perfect tiny hands and feet, is going to die and no amount of wishing me dead or mute or skipping your appointment or begging for a do-over is going to change that. Off you go now, the dog needs to be let out. There are dishes in the sink. You can’t leave the kids with your friend forever.
While I’m completely comfortable with my own lameness, Morris’ e-mail still gnawed at me a little. Was I the only loser parent at home on a Friday night watching the ABC Family Channel?
Becoming a Mother was not how I imagined. I was baby bluesy, overwhelmed and under-rested. Nursing was difficult, endless and painful.
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Oh, time, time, time… you tricky rascal. How is it that getting from morning to lunch takes forever, yet the birthdays just fly by me? How is it that my kids are so big?
I honestly can’t seem to get a handle on this time thing. Since becoming a mom, people have told me to make time for myself. Out of what, exactly, I don’t know, but I would guess it is like crafting or cooking. If I can get the right supplies or ingredients perhaps then I can whip up a batch of time. Until then, though, I will just keep on pushing, squeezing and cramming so much into my day that it might in fact burst.
Tell us your stories about TIME. The moments where you said “its time”. The ways time flies or crawls or stops. Tell us how TIME shapes you, and send it to us to shape Mamalode.
It’s TIME to tell your story.
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