I’ve been with K for seven years, married for six, and a mother for almost one – and all of it collided yesterday.
I hate Mother’s Day – maybe “hate” is too strong a word, but for the most part I just don’t like it. It makes me feel uncomfortable and worried and anxious. Yes, yes, I’ve written about it all before. My history with mother’s day has been anything but pleasant. I’m not sure what I was expecting it to feel like as a mother, but it didn’t necessarily feel any different.
I’m grateful, overjoyed, humbled by the beauty of being a mom. I’m also tired. I’m more in love with my husband than ever before and I also wish I had a night alone – maybe one with him and maybe one without him. Oh, the joys of the dialectic. I’d like to have sex with him when I wasn’t exhausted, when I wasn’t half listening for the baby, when there was enough time to delight in him. WHOA, I just blogged about my sex life for the first time, like, ever. I’m officially one of those people; Brittany would be proud.
The exhaustion is compounded by the house repair that will not quit (y’all the oven had no electrical plug, it was just hardwired into a junction box!). We’ve only got two more weeks till we move in, and the ticking clock is keeping me awake. It’s all pretty awesome though. All of it – we love it. I love it. I can’t believe how lucky we are. All of this gooey stuff that makes up our life – I wouldn’t have it any other way.