I never dreamed of becoming a mother. Since I can remember, it wasn’t in my list of things to do when I grow up. I remember making my doll hump my GI Joes but never at the point where they made babies (the GI always pulled out or maybe he was shooting blanks — a GI shooting blanks, get it? Get it?).
Although I don’t regret being a mum, it always freaks me out everytime a pause happens and it sinks in.
I am a mum. I am a freakin mum. Yes I only have one child (and that’s enough for me thank you very much) but for someone who didn’t dream of becoming a mum, one is plenty.
When it sinks in, I get this heavy feeling knowing that I’m going to be responsible for someone else’s life for the rest of my life. And yes hubby is there but everyone always blames the mum when something shitty happens (like them growing up to become gang leaders or serial killers of the non Dexter variety).
This responsibility is for always. I am responsible for another human being’s life, which is really daunting given that I’m barely responsible enough to handle my own damn existence.
It never ends and it gets more difficult as they grow older. I want to shoot the people who told me that the first four months of the child’s life is the hardest stage. Bloody liars. That was the easiest bit. The absolute walk in the park with donuts and milkshake. After that phase passes, things get trickier, busier and dirtier (literally and figuratively). Sometimes, I think I don’t only need a home economics degree, I also need a medical degree, political degree, or 10 qualifications in psychology. I should’ve taken on a different course in uni! Compared to this, journalism is chicken feed.
Fuck a duck, I’m a mother.