Being a mom is a blessing. At the same time it’s hard.
As a child I put motherhood on a pedestal, holding many romanticized notions. I’d coddle my baby dolls until they were threadbare, stroll them around the house, and line them up neatly to teach school. Being kind was easy because they were always content. I could abandon them on a whim and return hours later, their smiles plastered in place.
But there’s a difference between live babies and inanimate ones, and only an insider can understand the relentless demands of the real thing. Prior to joining the mom club, I’d see a beautiful child dressed up and think how much fun it’d be to have my own. I never considered the legwork required to get that child out the door: the cajoling her out of bed, the scrambling to iron her dress, the time spent fixing breakfast, brushing teeth, and fighting to get a bow in her hair.
On a good day I love being a stay-at-home mom and I’m grateful to have the option. But some days I wish I could trade places with my husband.