Lest I Be Misunderstood

I love my life. I’m doing exactly what I always wanted to do. I love my husband. I love my kids. I love staying home with them and I especially love homeschooling. I loved breastfeeding long enough for the weaning stories to include lines like, “Your milk’s all gone, Mama. It went down the drain in your nipple.” I love co-sleeping and I love gentle discipline. However, I’m fully aware that in doing all of these attach-y type things, it is part of an effort to re-do my childhood. I was raised by people who didn’t have very good childhoods. I believe both of my parents have attachment disorders. I believe I have an attachment disorder. And I believe I didn’t know what love was until that first day that I walked out of the hospital and left Lena and Liberty there because they were too premature to come home with me. I further believe that if I hadn’t co-slept and breastfed these girls on demand, I would not have been able to take that fierce mama love and translate it into attachment. I believe my parents love me, but attachment is a whole different thing.

Anyway, I’m putting this out there because, while I would not trade my life for anything, sometimes it’s hard. It’s hard. And sometimes I write about it with a derisive style and I don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I don’t tell my kids that I think they are black holes of need. That would be mean. I try to meet their needs and then I meet my needs by drinking. Just kidding! I try to meet their needs and it is impossible. Because they’re children. This impossibility and my inadequacy as a mother weigh on me and I deal with it, like I deal with most things, with sarcasm. Self-preservation can be ugly. I’m just trying to make it a little bit funny. The end.