Sometimes, when my daughter needs me for comfort, I find myself trying to memorize the feel of her in my arms… the smell of her hair… the rise and fall of her chest… I soak it all in and appreciate the privilege of being someone she seeks comfort from.
Other times, I want to crawl under my bed and hide from her like the dog does because I am so damn sick of being needed.
There really isn’t an in between. It’s either magical or it’s torture. She is either magical, or she’s torture.
No higher high. No lower low. That is my motherhood experience.