I don’t even really like kids.
There, I said it. Mom shame me, or judge me if you will. I’ve gotten blacklisted from mom groups for saying it. But that doesn’t change the fact that I just don’t like kids.
Don’t worry– I love my own. I just don’t like yours.
I don’t want to hold your baby. I may have held my own but a little screaming creature still feels so foreign in my arms. I’ll hold that baby so far outstretched you might wonder if I’m doing a sniff diaper test- which I can assure you I am not. And older kids? Yeah, I can’t really stand them much either.
Motherhood is just not my hood.
I never related to it well. Loving my child aside, I despised the endless diaper changes, but even more, the sleepless nights with a colicky baby. But no one wants to hear about how much you hate the monotonous moments of motherhood. Six months of a colicky baby and hours of Googling the struggles of motherhood brought me nothing but “how to stay positive as a mom” blogs and so on. Vomit. I needed validation, not a 12-step program to be a mom.
The thing is, no one wants to hear about this.
Moms aren’t allowed to have indifferent feelings to motherhood without being told to seek help for postpartum depression. I was not depressed; I didn’t have feelings of self-harm or harming my child. It just took some extra nudges to get my new self open to the idea of sacrificing every bit of me from now on to forever.
In all honesty, kids are soul-suckers. They will drool all over you and turn around to sneeze directly in your face, or if you are exceptionally unlucky, your mouth. I think they are crawling and walking germ bombs. They cry at the drop of a hat. I think they are bedwetting monsters. They drain my energy like they drain my bank account. They will straight up eat the dogs’ food right out of the bowl and kiss you with that same mouth .2 seconds later.
It’s the need for independence that makes it hard for me.
I’m not the mom who cried when my child crawled, then soon walked. Each step she took was one more step to her needing me a little less. To actually be able to make dinner or have a thought without being interrupted every single second because the little booger-box finally played with her Barbie dreamhouse were little moments of bliss.
I enjoy my personal space, so the constant climbing on me and always needing to be touching me drives me a bit bonkers. I don’t have any interest in sitting on the floor for hours playing with Barbies or Magna-tiles. Maybe I’m a lazy mom; maybe I’ll get more actively involved as she gets older. I’ll sit on the couch and color with her, but please don’t ask me to build yet another family out of playdoh. I get bored, and admitting that is like mom social suicide.
I probably don’t like your kids either.
I might not host the slumber parties, but I’ll send my daughter with snacks to share at yours. I won’t join your carpool group; I already require an insane amount of caffeine to function through mornings with one child. I don’t enjoy the chaos or excessive giggles of little girls with exploding glitter messes. I love that our children have a great friendship, but I love it a little more when they hang out at your house.
I might always have mixed emotions about motherhood, but that doesn’t make me a bad mom.
I couldn’t imagine my life without my daughter, I’m not completely off my rocker here.
You don’t have to love motherhood, you just have to love your kids.
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