Husband and I went out for awhile to grab a bite to eat and to catch up. We don’t make nearly enough time for just the two of us but we’re working on it. We sprang for a babysitter, the paid kind, our neighbor from two doors down, because our regular babysitter, Boy’s sister, had the nerve to leave for college.

I had just finished giving Boy his dinner, getting him out of the tub, getting him squared away with all of his post-tub crap. He’s 8, almost 9, but in our house, all of that stuff still involves a lot of, I don’t know, involvement. I said INVOLVEMENT.

Anyway, as I was chasing the kid around – and that’s putting it mildly – I was thinking that sometimes being a mother feels like one big gigantic F*CK YOU. And I have it easy, I know that. I am lucky to be able to be at home and personally, I like being at home. I love my kids ferociously, with my whole heart blahblahblah and they are the joy of my life blahblahblah and its the most important, rewarding work of my life blahblahblah, but still, it’s draining.

The end.




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