At Odds with Myself

They scream at me. They pee on me. They trash my house. I spend all afternoon counting down the minutes till my daughters' naptime so I can do something non-kid related. But as soon as their heads hit their pillows, I betray myself. I get on the computer and look at pictures of them. I edit videos of them. I call my mother and tell her the funny things they said. I sneak into their room and watch them sleep. I scrapbook their baby photos. Could it be that I don't dislike my children as much as I thought?

But my worst offense (and I quiver to even confess this) is that when my 7 month old wakes up at 2 a.m. giggling, I jump to her side, pull her out of bed and play with her for 20 minutes before feeding her and putting her back to bed. We both relish these moonlight escapades and her chances of sleeping through the night in the next decade are shot. I know what I'm doing is grossly wrong. I know I am going to die a self-sacrificing, doting, wuss mom, but I can't help myself. Their powers of charm are too strong for me to resist.

My trendy novels await me in a sad pile on my desk. The dishes reek of tilapia in the sink. My husband begs me to watch basketball with him. "I'll be right there," I call and run through another folder of baby pictures on the computer. The woman I once was has no chance against the Mom I now am.