I am not perfect, but I believe my child is.
I will never tire of watching him try new things.
I simply cannot believe my eyes when he does something on his own that he has never been shown how to do by me.
My heart races from frustration to longing to rage to utter and complete satisfaction, pride, and boundless love in seconds. Most days are a long battle between them.
Fear can creep slowly like a tickle in my throat that turns into the plague or it can spark and spread like wildfire in a millisecond.
My child’s grin can make every other being and object of matter in the universe disappear.
His laughter rings in my ears like the most harmonious bell.
Watching him play and learn and laughing with his father brings tears to my eyes.
Watching him adore my parents and grandparents and brother and sister is the epitome of joy.
Keeping calm while a seemingly drunk tiny psychopath screams irrationally at me for the eighth time in a day is the most difficult task I have ever been appointed to.
Trying to rationalize with a toddler is absolutely pointless, but I do it to make myself feel better when I resort to distraction and bribery.
Crying to other moms is sometimes the only solution.
Screaming at the father of my child is often both entirely irrational and necessary.
Poop is not taboo here. There is poop everywhere, all the time.
There is literally no TMI left.
Wanting to go out and rage and make bad decisions is a fleeting thought after his bedtime between a shower and PJs.
Coffee is only there for the placebo affect by now, but I will curse anyone who tries to take it away.
Sleeping in past 7am is ecstasy.
Someone else cleaning my house is a luxury sent from heaven above.
Snacks and naps make for happy children, damn anyone who intentionally gets in the way of either.
I do sometimes loathe my life and this tiny perfect human that I created.
I have never known love like this, and it makes me better all the time.
I am raising a human that I grew and birthed, for nothing, by choice, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
