The Absurdity Of It All

I don’t know of any Mother who thinks she’s doing a good enough job. We, as Mothers, essentially can’t win, can we? By that I mean that the day our first child is born, first of all we realize we’ve been doing this love thing all wrong- the love for our parents, family, “first” romantic love, spouse……we thought that was love until we held our first born in our arms for the first time. And we think to ourselves, “Oh! So this is the real deal! I get it now!”. I’ve always “labeled” Alana as my first true love. And don’t get me wrong, this is in no way meant to disrespect or diminish the love we’ve had for others- it’s just an entirely different category of emotion that we never knew existed.

So we give birth to these amazing creatures that we can’t believe is truly ours to love and care for but what’s our ultimate purpose? Along with being some kind of mythic Mother of the Year, we truly only have one job once we bring them home from the hospital and that is to prepare them on a daily basis, where all moments are teaching moments, TO LEAVE! We have 18 years to constantly prepare them to walk out the door, never to return. (Generally speaking). Well, what kind of fucked up sick joke is that!? I know, I know, it’s normal, it’s what’s expected but you mean to tell me after all I’ve done for you, you’re just going to walk away? Uh……yes, that’s exactly what they’re going to do.

Fun fact: 90% of our lifetime that we spend with our kids occurs between birth and 18 years old. And the remaining 10% is spread over what life you have left and that of course depends on our age, what their geographical situation is and obvious other factors. 10%. If I’m lucky. 10%. Oh, and that 90%? Not to complain or anything, but we can’t forget that after we’ve given birth, there are all these beautiful bullshit moments with you, your husband and baby (when all you want to do is sleep), and eventually your husband bleats out, “Well, I guess I’m gonna run home and let the dogs out, get the mail, get something to eat blah, blah, blah”. What the fuck are you talking about? What are you going to do, just leave me here with your spawn I just hatched for you? And therein sets the tone for basically the rest of your life. Guess what Fictitious Perfect Mom? You’re in charge. Of everything. Forever. Good luck with that.

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