I love my kids fiercely. But, if I’m being totally honest, there are times when I catch myself dreaming about the life I might have if I weren’t chained to three young kids, a husband and a mortgage.
I have a childless friend who writes bestselling chick-lit novels and runs a media empire. I follow her compulsively on Instagram; while my jealousy grows with every unfiltered photo, I can’t stop scrolling. She’s still as skinny as she was when we were at university, and hot damn she looks good in leather pants. I’m just happy if the sweats I bought at the grocery store are clean enough to get me through another day. While she’s sipping sparkling wine as she jets from London to New York, I’m downing tepid coffee as I drive my kids to ballet and swimming lessons. Early-morning yoga class and getting an immaculate half-moon manicure? For me, being able to go to the washroom all by myself is a treat.
There are times, like when I look at her life and then at my own, that I find myself regretting motherhood. And that makes me feel like a very shitty person indeed.
But before someone ties me to a stake and sets me aflame, I need to make that necessary qualifying statement we must all use when complaining about our lot: I love my children. The deep, burning love I feel for them eclipses everything I have ever felt for anyone, and the love they give back makes me incredibly happy. Every day I look at these beautiful little people I’ve created and know they are the best things I have ever done. They are my life, for good and bad, and I do everything I can to give them opportunities I never had. And in return, I get ridiculous amounts of pleasure, watching my nine-year-old daughter shining at her ballet recital, seeing my four-year-old son splashing around at swimming lessons, hearing my 15-month-old saying “balalalala” instead of “banana” as he plants a big, sloppy kiss on my cheek.
