This is an idea I have for a freelance piece, so I'll only be very brief in communicating it here.
There is a notion that mothering is the pinnacle of selflessness. How untrue this is. In some ways, it brings out my worst, most selfish side — it reveals this to me, and, also, perhaps, my son.
I am a mother because I wanted to be. I fantasised night and day about snuggling up to a warm little body, about carting around a cute little face — a cute little face I created. I relished the spectacle of my pregnancy. I felt smug about my ability to conceive and carry my baby to term.
Me, me, me, me, me...
I could go on.
Why is it that I love him ever so slightly more when he's asleep?
Right now he's sleeping on our bed — his bed, too, I guess — next to his Daddy, who's reading. He's sprawled out, sweaty and absolutely stunning.
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