Some days I want to run away. I miss my job, my office, my paycheck. Those days I wonder why I ever thought I could be a mom. I long for a tiny shred of my former autonomy, imaging what it would be like to have gotten my shit together and written a book earlier.
Then my daughter holds her chubby little arms up to be carried. I pop her on my hip, and she clutches me that way that says "I'm holding you not because I'm afraid but because this is where I belong." And she throws her head back a little so that her wispy hair falls from her eyes, my eyes looking back at me, and all they reflect is joy. The love of life, the wonder of it, the completeness of our bond.
And I remember why.