Some days I don’t want to let them in. When I awake to the shrieks and complaints before I’ve had a sip of water let alone a cup of coffee. I know that after sharing my body for nine months, my breasts for another year after that, not to mention the continuous supply of hugs, snotty noses and occasional vomit; you would think sharing my space wouldn’t be so difficult. But sometimes/mostly it is.
Because loving them is both easier and harder than I even imagined. My responsibilities towards them scare me, because I don’t feel confident that I’ll be able to stay the course, to guide them through these turbulent years into adulthood, ready to face an even more unsteady world.
I know that it’s my job, that it’s what I signed up for but that doesn’t mean I love it or that I feel ready to deal with it every minute. Sometimes I just want a quiet minute to collect my thoughts or a silent cup of coffee. I have to shove that selfishness deep inside when I invite him to cuddle on the couch when I fact what I want is my personal space. When I suggest I read aloud from her favorite book when I would rather be lost in my own.
I know the sacrifices I am called to make but some days it is hard not to resent it. Yet in the same breath I know my life wouldn’t be the same without them. (Though obviously it would be a good bit quieter). Yet another way that parenting forces me to continually die to self. It is a painful refining process but certainly an effective one.