Beautifully weird

Motherhood is beautifully weird.

I feel like I’m drowning most days, yet I am floating on cloud nine generally.

Those little people I get to raise are the best. Even on my worst days - the days where I am well and truly in the depths of being a human being asked to do superhuman things and it all gets a bit much - my love for them never waivers. Neither does theirs, although I don’t feel like I always deserve it.

I had a bath the other night. It was meant to be relaxing. But all it ended up being was another opportunity to think about what I still have to do. I rushed out, trying to forget my responsibilities. I resented the mother load.

I then went to kiss my children goodnight.

This is my nightly ritual. But I ended up sitting at the end of one of their beds for nearly half an hour. You know that beautifully weird thing we do sometimes? Words were not spoken, I just watching her sleep. It was bliss. I felt relaxed. Like nothing else mattered. I didn’t rush away either. I stayed and enjoyed floating on cloud nine.

And right there were two contrasting experiences, merely minutes apart.

This is motherhood.

It’s the feeling of drowning in the weight of the mother-load, and floating on a cloud of mother-love, often at the same time, if not within a ridiculously small window of time.

It’s the dark and light folding into one another, leaving you unsure of what you are feeling sometimes.

It’s beautifully weird and confusing, and everything you could hope for mixed with a depth of feeling you have never known until now.

It really is.

But how incredible is it to be able to try and make sense of it?