Sometimes motherhood feels exactly like being the live-in maid to a schizophrenic narcissist with a Napoleon complex. Except that you don't get paid so you're more slave than servant.
One minute your masters are cooing about how much they love you, the next minute they are slamming the sub-par pasta you made to the floor and telling you in a cool serial killer voice that they hate you. The only real constants are the messes and the whining and the pee droplets in front of the toilet. The small dollops of sweetness are just enough to keep you from quitting and running away to Corsica where surely someone will really appreciate you.
Or am I doing it wrong? Are other people's homes just filled with all the cooing sweetness of a Sears Portrait commercial? Are we the only ones who have three-year-olds who tell us they hate us? If we aren't alone then why isn't anyone else speaking up? Why aren't we all shouting from rooftops about how hard this is, and how painful, and how, sometimes, it just plain sucks.
By the way, as I write this Maggie is yelling a story to me through her bedroom door. It goes like this: "I love you so much and I'm you friend and I want you and I love you as big as the world."
And that's how they get you. It's sick.