Here I am, hair unwashed, wearing a day-old t-shirt stretched from the countless times I’ve offered my breast to my son. Kitchen timer beeping, dogs barking, said son crying because I’ve disappeared into the next room, which obviously means I am gone for good, leaving him to fend for himself for the rest of time.
I’m hot, I’m tired, I’m quickly losing patience. And I think, I could do this again.
Because I am so full, I’m bursting. Full of angst and exhaustion and to-dos and love; overwhelming, all-consuming love.
I always wondered how it happened, how you knew you were ready to add another baby to the family. And I guess it goes something like this—you’re messy and sweaty, blowing the hair out of your eyes as you rush to the kitchen before your breakfast burns and back to the living room before your toddler melts down and you feel so immeasurably in love with it all.
Maybe some moms know in moments of silence after everyone’s gone off to bed, but not me. It’s the fullness, the chaos. When I’m in full-on beast mode and I think,
I could do this again.