This was not my plan.
 
Kids were not in the picture of my future in any way, at any time in my life. I was a strange little girl who at age 7 said, “I don’t need a man, and I’m not having kids.” So I spent my life living for me.  I did not pine away or hope for the right man to raise my kids with, because I did not want to live that life.  Sure, I had my share of long-term boyfriends, but it is amazing what you will settle for when you don’t care about having any kids.
 
I was having a grand ol’ time, living life all for me.  Then I got distracted and the next thing I knew, I was pregnant.  Ok, I’ll come right out and say it: The first baby was an accident.  So I stuck with it.  I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.  Within the course of a year, I went from never wanting kids to being pregnant and married.  I went from “Never, ever, ever will I wait on a man like my mother did,” to being an old-fashioned homemaker.  
 
The roller coaster of emotions that ensued in the next three years was overwhelming.  I went from shock, to giddy, to sick, tired and huge in 9 months. Then, after the baby was born, I was back to giddy, then resentful, guilt-ridden (from the resentment), angry, depressed and completely lost.  I did not know how to do this mother thing.
 
So I read books...lots of them.  Some helped, and some only made me more confused.  I have seen therapists and searched for friends who understand what I’m going through (not many, I must admit).  It is hard to find women who don’t really care for babies, and can hardly stand to be around a two-year-old. I loved mine, of course, but could not wait until we could have a more logical conversation.
 
I spent so many years living for me, that learning to live completely in the moment for an illogical little creature has been the hardest lesson of my life. But I have grown tremendously in the last few years.  The growing pains have been unbearable at times, but I am stronger, more resilient, patient, and compassionate. I have found a deep well of love in my heart that I did not know existed.
 
Because I have children, I have not allowed myself to consider running from my relationship when things get difficult, as I once would have done.  I have learned to accept my husband’s faults and deal with living with someone who I am not always compatible with.  I have learned to compromise as well as stand up for myself.

There have been times, in the midst of misery and post-partum depression, that I felt I was drowning.  I couldn’t breathe.  I thought I was not going to make it through this.  I feel like I have risen to the surface, and most days I am swimming somewhat gracefully to shore.
 
My children have forced me through the most painful growth I could ever imagine.  I thank them with all of my heart for coming into my life and being my teachers.  I know I am not done yet.  In fact, I have only just begun on this path as a parent.  I am still growing, and some days will again make me wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into.  But most days I know that my children have helped me to become a person that I never would have been without them.  I only hope I can do the same for them.

And if you have anything to say about what you read here, don't forget to make a comment. Let's start some dialogue about motherhood!
 
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I’m a Yeller.  When it comes to motherhood, I have about as much patience as a bull with a banderilla stuck in its neck.  There isn’t a chapter titled “Rage” in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.  As someone who always prided herself on her patience and loving nature, anger is the part of motherhood I could never have imagined.  
 
I am an introvert; a lover of silence, harmony and order.  My children are not quiet, never leave me alone, and they turn my house into a battlefield on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t feel very loving towards these two small creatures who are stomping like angry elephants over the calm life I continue to—optimistically—envision.
 
In my early twenties, the vision of my future life included only the patter of fingers on the keyboard, not that of tiny feet.  My imaginary writer’s turret didn’t come equipped with a safety gate. But when I got married it just seemed that a child was the next natural step.  I don’t believe I ever questioned whether I was truly made for this new role.
 
When our beautiful little doll-baby came along I didn’t chatter away at her as I have witnessed with other mothers.  My default mode was mute.  And nursing was difficult.  I felt as open as a 24-hour diner and as over-worked and under-appreciated as the waitress inside.  I wanted my body, personal space, and time back.  My writing—even my journal—was neglected due to exhaustion and lack of creative inspiration.  Along with my milk, I felt the Real Me being devoured by this tiny child.
 
As she grew up, the toys and the tantrums began multiplying.  My quiet, orderly world had become a place of constant noise and chaos.  And although I had my breasts back to myself (albeit far below their former position), I now found myself gasping for free time while digging out from under plastic trucks and fuzzy giraffes.  Especially when the second child came along, I longed for peace, for things to stay put, for a beautiful home, for my writing, and on some days, for anything other than motherhood. I felt oppressed.  Resentful.  Rage-ful.
 
And I started yelling.  The Silent One was vanquished in a storm of frustration.
I can feel calm and then…bam! I’m screaming like a junkie in a police car. The anger which erupts when a grumpy, overtired 1st grader lets half-smashed food fall from her mouth both shocks and scares me.  Or, when we have arranged a day of “kid fun” (i.e. adult hell) and they refuse to get dressed but then cry in frustration when we miss the parade.  Or, when the tiny, but powerful fist smashes into my leg because my Mama-powers do not extend to making the hot sun go away.
 
The anger is a pressure in my chest which, at the worst moments of defiance, illogicality, and sibling rivalry increases to a physical pain.  Sometimes when I have yelled myself to tears, I imagine running off to a cottage by the sea, just my pen and I.  I never would, of course, but at times I long for nothing more than peaceful irresponsibility.
 
I hate The Rage. It does nothing more than give me a momentary release while polluting our home with bad energy for far longer. But I fear if I was capable of restraining the monster, it would only retreat to a deeper place, ultimately causing me greater pain.  The answer is to not allow The Rage to enter at all. In an effort to be pro-active, each morning I write in my journal, “It will be a calm and loving day…”
 
One day I hope I can truly say it was.
 
Would it have been better if I’d kept all that to myself and internalized the self-belief that I am an inferior mother? Are you judging me as a bad mom?
 
Or are you sighing in relief that you’re not the only one?
 
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