mother

There’s almost definitely a better way to begin this, but I can’t think of one more appropriate. Growing up is really fucking weird. One day you’re having a great time arguing if Doctor Doom would beat Darth Vader in a fight (he would,) and next thing you know you’re worrying about taxes and whatever a “mortgage” is.

She was beautiful; I wanted to love her. But there was this nagging voice inside me: "What if I can’t love this baby as much as my son? Is there enough love for both of my children?"

[CN: Toxic parents] I am a big fan of inappropriate humor (especially when said humor is tinged with sarcasm), and I’m an even bigger fan of using comedy to deal with life’s ugliness. But when the humor is at the expense of someone unknowing and innocent, like a child, I no longer consider it funny.

My mother saw in my brother a carbon copy of herself; every side-eye and negative comment was an echo of offensive remarks made about her own behavior as a child. Whenever my brother got into trouble for his disregard for authority or bad attitude, my mother saw it as a victory: My brother wasn’t just sticking up for himself, he was sticking up for my mother.

This ad is the furthest thing from funny. It’s not humor, it’s not satire, it’s just plain distasteful. Good humor punches up. But there’s no humor to be found in an issue that, according to the Center For Disease Control, killed 47,055 people in 2014. Of those over 47,000 people that died of a drug overdose, opiates — like heroin — were involved in 61% of those deaths.

There used to be weekends where I would rise and have no plans for the day but to do whatever the heck I wanted. I relied on no one and no one relied on me. Yes, there are aspects of those days that I miss (especially the sleeping in), but being a mom has made me a better person and my life much more purposeful. Would I love a do-over of a weekend sans kids? Sure! But as far as my character goes, nothing can compare to the way being a mom has humbled me.

Dear Husband, You are putting up with an awful lot in being with me right now, and rightfully so — I’m growing a tiny human inside me. Our tiny human. You have been very patient and kind with me, but so far we are only 15 weeks along and I fear that we have an even longer road ahead of us.

As we made our way to the back of the plane, the baby apologizing the whole way, passengers were giving us a certain look, one to which I had become accustomed to receiving when with my daughter. The one that says, How cute. I, however, was shaken. Had I really taught my daughter, all of 1½ years old, that she needs to apologize for herself? That because she was noticed — rather than slipping quietly through a space — she needed to say “I'm sorry”?