Sometimes I am suffocated by the knowledge that another person’s world revolves around me.
Sometimes I wish I could eat cold cereal for dinner while binge-watching Netflix.
Sometimes I wish I could sleep without a small, sweaty urchin pressed against me.
Sometimes I wish I could sleep in on Sunday mornings without having to plan it ahead of time.
Sometimes I wish I could spend my paychecks on tattoos and concert tickets instead of diapers and daycare.
Sometimes I wish I could get in bed and never get back up.
Sometimes I tear up when I fold her teeny tiny little underwear.
Sometimes I don’t want to watch Dora anymore.
Sometimes I want to colour a different page.
Sometimes I just want her to put her f*!@*?g boots on without fighting in the morning so we can get out the door.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a child so I wouldn’t watch the news and face the fact that some parents have to bury their children.
Sometimes I wish for more patience.
Sometimes I wish for more time. To do anything.
Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t responsible for another human life, because I am sure I’m not the person for the job.
Sometimes I hate washing all those tiny socks.
Sometimes I am staggered by my daughter’s capacity for love.
Sometimes I take her for granted.
Sometimes I am grateful that she forgives me so easily when I make mistakes.
Sometimes I listen to Baby Beluga when she isn’t in the car.
Sometimes I am delighted by her quick wit.
Sometimes I melt at the feeling of her tiny hand holding mine.
Sometimes I wish there were two of her so I could have twice the fun.
Sometimes I imagine us talking as adults and I hope that she looks back on her childhood with fondness.
Sometimes I am frightened by the lengths I would go to in order to protect her.
Sometimes I need to remind myself what a privilege it is to be her mama.