When I became a mother, I was really ready. It was later in my life and I had already had a career. I threw myself into raising children with a lot of enthusiasm. I enjoyed being with my young kids a lot, and my husband and I spent a lot of time with them. The industry I worked in kind of dried up and I ended up spending several years at home with them before I returned to work.
Having kids just opened up my emotions. Maybe because I breastfed for so long, I don’t know. It does make you release endorphins, which feels really nice, but really emotional. I was a bucket of emotions.
As my first child swiftly grew longer and longer, and smiled and sat up and babbled, I found I was thrilled but missed the last stage a little. This just got worse as they got older. I was so happy for them as they progressed through school and mastered sports and math and social settings. But part of me was a little sad for that small person that was left behind. I felt a little — you know — sensitive. Being a writer and kind of emotional, I chalked it up to just me being a little weird.
But I thought about it long and hard one day. You know that little infant who gurgled and looked up at you like you hung the moon? Remember her? Well she didn’t just get bigger, she completely changed into another kind of being. A walking, talking, sassing you kind of…
