If there were someone out there looking for the next Big Idea, I’m going to lay it out for you right here—an alarm clock where the music and/or beep is replaced with a baby’s screams.
Let me start off this post by saying, I hate that I have to even write this. A parent’s nightmare, hands-down, is the though of something bad happening to your children.
We start movements. We start baths. We get our minds so set on something that it would take an act of God to vaporize our passion. (You tell us we’re stubborn; we say it’s strong.)
Right now, as I’m typing this, I’m in the McDonald’s drive-thru line. It is 5:19pm. Tonight marks the second time this week I’m feeding my kids Grade A, Unadulterated Crap.
Before having kids, I pictured early motherhood in several scenarios–mostly charmed–but I can promise you that not one vignette in my mind’s eye was that of me, standing in a hot shower, squeezing my own nipple to within an inch of its own life.
It is school night and all the kids are asleep by 8:00. This has put me in the unique position of being able to wholeheartedly commit to doing one of two things: Work, or binge on Netflix.
This was the scene last week in the foyer of our house, as my five and three-year-old ripped and roared through the hallways as I held the baby in the other room, enjoying some much-needed time with a friend, oblivious to the mess as I caught up with a friend.
Even five years later, I still remember the moment very distinctly. In his dark room, I nursed my two-week-old son. We glided back and forth on his chair, all alone, it felt, in more ways than one.
