Here is what I know so far about being a mother.
Some days you will like your child. Some days you won’t. Sometimes these instances are minutes apart.
You will wipe the spit-up off the baby’s face first, even though it’s dripping down your cleavage and will probably create some sort of cesspool because who knows when you’ll be able to change your shirt and/or take a shower.
You will cry when the baby has gas or the toddler has a fever because you can’t take it away and make it better with kisses. You’ll kiss the tears off their cheeks anyway, just to hold a little bit of them inside you again.
You’ll give them nicknames like Peanut Butter Pie and Doodlebug and Chunky Cheeks and hope they’ll forgive you someday. You’ll find yourself saying things like, “Look at those fat thighs!” and mean it as a compliment. And wonder why your own fat thighs aren’t so cute.
You’ll cry when they fall down and when they push you down. You’ll cry in frustration about how your carpets might never be clear of tiny trains and crumbs ever again. Every so often you’ll become a whirlwind, tossing toys in garbage bags and threatening to take them to the dump … or at least Goodwill. You might even follow through.
You might love your pregnancy, or you might hate every minute of all nine months. Probably a combination. But when your baby learns to really smile at you every time you tickle his chin, you’ll think maybe the pregnancy wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe you’d do it all again just to see that toothless grin.
You’ll understand your friend’s addiction to coffee or Diet Coke and develop your own drug of choice.
You’ll spend nights wondering what you did to deserve this. If God was thinking right when He gave you the ability to conceive. Whether anyone would notice if you checked into a hotel and slept for three days. That the mental institution sounds like a vacation. You’ll fall over the edge and have to keep right on running.
