I never intended to have kids. And if the thought did ever cross my mind, I allowed that I might have one girl – just possibly.
And yet here I am – mother of two extremely active, Star Wars loving, Lego obsessed, ridiculously expensive light-up shoe wearing, arsenal craving, princess-disdaining little boys. And I am, of course, madly in love. No one was more surprised than me when I discovered that motherhood suited me. To a T. But I still have those days when I think that a short stay in a mental facility might be nice, when we have cereal for dinner and I wonder if my Tupperware drawer is trying to kill me. And I wonder: should I really be the one in charge? I mean, I am thirty-something years old and I still manage to sit in my own gum. I have yet to learn that I can wear my hair down OR wear lip gloss, but I just can’t do both. I think sharing is highly overrated, especially when it comes to my own stuff. I lived in Seattle for eight years before it occurred to me to buy myself a pair of rubber boots for the park – even though I insist the kids wear them and I come home at least once a week with wet socks. I stopped reading parenting books in my older son’s first year, and now subscribe completely to the “by the seat of my pants” parenting school of thought. Yes, there are times when I thoroughly question my fitness as a mum. But I hope, truly and deeply, that the fact that I love them like crazy – even when I am crazy – will make up for the endless of number of times that I get it wrong.