As I was sitting there, cradling the son to sleep at around 4:30am last night, I looked over to the daughter and then I had to take a double-take.

I’m a mother?!

I know, it’s over 4 years but I honestly can’t get it wrapped around my head that I’m really someone’s mother. And I have to be responsible (or possibly worry) for these people for the rest of my life. What did I sign myself up for?! What was I thinking? Must be the lack of entertaining shows on TV.

Before our marriage, one thing I wouldn’t commit on was children. While the husband will gleefully hold up four fingers when you ask him about the number of children he would like, I’ll be the one hemming and hewing away. I wasn’t sure if I could be trusted with one and with no money-back guarantee, it’s a huge risk to take. And I’ll always pass the baton to God. If I’m blessed with children, then I guess He thinks I’m ready for them (let’s not get started on theology questions/lessons).

With every passing birthday, I don’t find myself maturing very much though. I’m afraid the kids might have to deal with a parent who is probably more immature than them in the future. I feel for them. Worse, they might have to deal with TWO! Heh.

Now, my life revolves around them. Not totally but enough to make me sometimes forget what was it pre-children. Honestly, when I’m in a crappy mood, I wish for those care-free days with fewer white hairs but on most days, I’m enjoying motherhood. Which makes me a little surprised. My heart burst at its seams with love for them and in the words of Elmyra Duff, I just want to “hug them and kiss them and love them forever (and never use them up)”.

Say Cheese

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