On a daily basis, I thank genetics for whatever gave me my maternal instinct. Why, you ask? Because without it, I have a personality that screams “will abandon her children to run away and find herself for the next 20yrs”. And nobody likes that kind of bitch.
I’m well aware that some people will pass judgment on me for saying this, but I don’t think motherhood is all rainbow-pooping unicorns and lollipops filled with sunshine. In fact, if I hadn’t ended up with my first little fluke child (if you’re reading this years from now, love you sweetie!) then I probably wouldn’t have children at all.
I’m twenty six years old and I’ve experienced at least twenty six life crises. The only constant career goal I’ve had is to write a book, which I have yet to do. When people ask if I want more kids, I laugh in their stupid faces. I like cheap beer, late nights, loud music and I’m an overall immature twat. But (I think) I’m also a damn good mother (most of the time).
I’ve been fighting to find the balance between perma-twenty-something-er who likes to party and married mother of two. Sometimes it feels like walking a tightrope over a lava pit filled with flaming crocodiles, but more often the two sides live in a truce-pledged harmony. There are pinky swears and compromises involved, but I’ll always make time to let my freak flag fly.
Motherhood takes all types, and in the end we’re all just trying to survive and raise some humans who don’t turn out to be complete shitheads. AM’I’RIGHT?