Even as I am waving goodbye to them, excited at the opportunity of hours on an end of peace and quiet, I still can't help but want to hold on for a couple of extra seconds to those small arms wrapped around my waist.
This is what motherhood did to me. Motherhood turned me into someone else. Someone who, on most days, I don't recognize. Motherhood took the former me and shook her up a bit. Rocked the ground on which she once stood.
I remember telling my mom I hated her when I was a teenager. I am sure it hurt her more then she let on, because if my son tells me that one day, I would be devastated. I will probably call her and tell her all about it. Because she will understand.
We can't say it's hard. We can't cry over the pressure. We are supposed to grin and bear it. It's no wonder so many snap, so many are depressed, so many take this pent-up rage and resentment out on their kids. I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying I understand, carajo.
I, too, fell madly in love with someone (probably before I even met him) and, after four years and countless disappointments, faced the reality that he didn't want to marry me. At 28, I refused to let his decision derail my path.