A Beautiful Battle

Raising children is a battle.  Definitely the most beautiful battle you'll ever love to lose.  I say this because I don't care who you are - you're going to lose that battle at least once.  No parent is perfect, and if you are, I want to know what drugs you take to do it.  I'm gonna need in on that deal. 

Once upon a time, the only thing I planned for my life was to have kids.  I mean, before that I said I was never having kids - just dogs.  Lots and lots of dogs.  I still wonder why I changed my mind on that one.  But, after I did, the only thing I knew I wanted to do when I grew up was be a mommy.  I wanted four kids, 18 months between them.  I thought I would read all the books, and eat only according to the recommended diet, and take my kids to mommy and me classes and generally be the best and most prepared mother ever.  Until that second line.  I wasn't even sure I did that much right.  I remember texting my friend from work saying "I think I'm pregnant.  There're two lines, but I'm not sure I did it right."  Her response?  "How the f$*% do you pee wrong?"  In my defense, the test required me to insert something into something and then pee on something else and....HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO REMEMBER ALL OF THIS WHEN I'M SO ANXIOUS!?!

Turns out, the test had a margin of error for humans riddled with anxiety and it worked the way it was supposed to.  I was pregnant.  My plans for my upcoming white girl wasted weekend were put on hold - a long hold.  But I was thrilled.  And that pregnancy was a dream.  Minimal nausea, only during my first trimester, and no complications at all.  Yes, I had some general discomfort, but who doesn't.  And when my first son was born, only two days after his due date, I was ready to hit the ground running.  We did everything according to the books when we left the hospital - for about the first weekend. 


Since then, I've added two more to the bunch, and can only fly by the seat of my pants.  And I lose on a daily basis.  I lose my mind, my patience, my socks, my kids pants (seriously, why do they never leave them on?).  And on top of it all, I get to hear things like "I wish so and so was my mommy, because she's nice" or "You're not a good parent.  I like Daddy better." 

At the end of the day, though, I tuck my little  terrors into bed, and with their little arms wrapped around my neck, I hear the words "I love you Mommy".  And I lose again.  I lose all the sadness, craze, and frustration of the day.   And the only thing I feel is gratitude.  These little men depend on me for so much, and somewhere someone or something (depending on your beliefs) trusted that I could be responsible for that.  I have a purpose, and a chance to shape the world for another person.