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.

One thought on “Comfort

  1. I like to tell myself that people with pleasant children (the non-tantruming children who are reasonable, and not everything is a shit fight) don’t get the extreme highs of love, along with the extreme lows.
    I don’t really believe it to be true, but I tell myself anyway to make myself feel better.

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