Every Rose has its Thorns

This was one of the hardest mornings I have had with Abigail since her birth. One where everything that could go wrong did, and one where nothing I tried made things better for either Abbie or myself. "Her teething is out of control", I tell myself as a consolation, or better yet, as a justification for how hard to handle she was all morning. The fact that her teething really *is* out of control is actually secondary to the relief it provides when compared to my irrational fears: is this her true self? Is this what she is going to develop into? How am I going to handle it? Will I be able to handle it?

The whiny, unhappy, tantrummy kid that would barely take a breather in between cries was a nightmare to me. We both cried: she out of... random "babyness", I guess, and physical discomfort. I cried out of frustration and physical pain, since she bit my cheek so hard she actually broke through the skin and I bled. I tried to hide my tears from her, but I cried for quite a while.

This morning, when confronted with Abigail at her worst, I recoiled in bewilderment. I looked at things with such a different attitude, that I am ashamed of myself. I saw myself sitting on the floor trying to come up with things to distract her and provide whatever comfort I can, and thought: "Wow. Bet you didn't think about this when you decided to have a kid, huh? Now there you are, and there is not a damn thing you can do about it! Did you ever think you'd be at the age you are at, and have your life run by a nine month old? Bet not".

What am I, a fair-weather mother? Do I regret having had Abigail? And the answer to the latter is a rotund NO. I am not, I could never be. Yet, I find it so hard to reconcile, at times, the utter and passionate love that I feel for her with the desperation that, if only for a moment, overcomes me. I knew it would not be easy, as independent as I am. I was aware that it would not be all peaches and cream. I am not a fool, nor do I wear rose-colored glasses. My struggle is purely emotional, when I feel I'd rather be doing anything else but dealing with a baby who is having a fit, a baby that I love more than life itself. It seems so inconsistent and contradictory...

Are there any other degenerate mothers, out there? Am I the only one who feels this nonsensical way? Probably.
But today, after I put her to bed for her nap and run a quick checklist of the events of the day, I realized that motherhood does not fit me like a glove: I hate the constant battles -- to feed her, to change her diaper, to fit the schedule, to make her take a nap. Maybe accepting these shortcomings of mine as a mother, is the first step to help me through the hard moments, for which I have not developed a thick skin yet.

As I looked at myself in the mirror I saw my puffy cheek, my red eyes, my unkempt hair, and how old I feel and look. I could barely recognize myself. I don't know where I went.

Abbie, my love, when and if you will ever read these words, just remember one simple truth: it wasn't always a walk in the park for you and I. But I get up every morning at the very first sound you make willing and yearning to take that walk. And that says a lot more than what I have written up until now: that I love you. Because I would never -- never had -- stick with what I don't like, can't accept, and makes me unhappy. My life is a blatant example of the fact that I will not be tied down to anything or anyone that makes me miserable. I don't spend every day with you out of duty, but out of love. When push comes to shove, honey, this is the only thing that really matters.

I had to let it out.

In the 20 minutes it took me to write this, I have already looked at the clock twice, wondering when my daughter will wake up, so I can scoop her up in my arms, and make the best out of the remainder of the day.