It Depends On The Day You Ask Me
I like my children most of the time and I love them all of the time.
It depends on the day you ask me if we’re going to grow our family and whether the bags under my eyes have deepened. Sometimes I think about Botox and remember it requires maintenance and money. Other times I’m more accepting of myself.
I’m trying to drink less coffee, but I’m not trying that hard really. I want to be centered and present and sometimes I am, sometimes I know what I want and other times I don’t.
It depends on the day you ask me.
I want my space and I want them near and I wonder if I’ll ever feel like a proper grown up. I know I’m doing the most important work, raising the future, but I have to remind myself of it daily, why.
I don’t mind the rolled up nappies at the door, the toys I stand on, I love this season entirely but it depends on the day you ask me.
Making plans is who I am and so is spontaneity. Sometimes I have to unzip my thoughts to make any sense and I just need quiet but then chaos has a sound.
I say “later” a lot, and in the evenings I cry because “later” never came. I’m busy, that’s who I am, I think. And maybe a bit of a helicopter too, though I hate to admit.
And I know my husbands patience is something to admire and yet it irritates me too.
I think I know exactly who I am, I’m sure of it. I know I’m a good mum, I know I am brave, I know my purpose. But maybe I filled up my house with pot plants to give me something else to do.
It all makes sense.
I’m oil and I’m water.
But it depends on the day you ask me.
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