Posted by Duff

Recently, someone was far too complimentary of my parenting skills. With all the recent “True Mom Confession” talk, I thought it only fitting that I call myself out so as not to mislead that woman or anyone else who reads my ramblings.

If you derive your opinion of my patience or attitude from my written words, you have to understand that I have admin rights to my blog and can (and do) edit at will. I have erased entire posts and started from scratch after disapproving of myself.

I have lost my temper more times than I care to admit, and have wondered if I am even cut out to be a parent, selfish as I am.  During The Dervish’s first year, I wanted to go to work more than I wanted to stay home (mostly so I could eat or pee without interruption), I feared weekends and The Dervish’s temper during the majority of them, and I spent more time than I think was healthy planning  hypothetical Dream Days, which consisted of sleeping late, eating food I had time to prepare from scratch while sipping wine and talking with my husband, doing yoga, getting a massage.

I say these things not to hurt The Dervish’s feelings, should she ever read this (as this blog is the closest thing to a baby book I keep with any regularity), because it was not personal.

Over a period of time, my expectations of my day to day have shifted with seismic force. I suppose it’s only natural some of my confidence would tumble off the shelves before my world settled. Somewhat.

I still have to adjust  to the idea of myself as a mother, no longer first priority, with far less time to devote to personal maintenance, let alone interests or relationships other than Mother/Daughter.

If you told me when I was 19 that I would be so caught up in the bathroom habits of a nearly three year old, I would have told you I was never having children.

If you told me when I was 24 that 10 years later I’d be on the cusp of Mother of Two and trying desperately to keep the Lincoln Logs separated from the alphabet blocks, I’d have ordered another bottle of wine, pronto.

Parts of me still feel 19 and 24.  I still want to look good, I still want to feel special. I still want to be spontaneous and date my husband and lie quietly still in the sunshine with an umbrella drink. These feelings didn’t go away and sometimes still create a fault line.

And I can’t fault myself for being honest with myself.  I’ll reserve that guilt for when The Dervish needs therapy.

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