Sometimes I cry. I stand in the shower and let the water rain down on me like tiny bullets of crystal clear glass and though I know my family probably know I’m doing it, I only let the sobs flow when I’m sure I’m alone. I’m not alone often. There is usually a small hand on my leg or a bottom on my lap. There is usually only thirty seconds or so before my hiding place is discovered. There is usually no stone left uncovered in their quest to find me. And usually, that’s just fine. But, sometimes, I cry.
I cry because I am human. I am a mother trying to muddle through the murky waters of bringing up people to be kind, decent and honest. I am a mother trying to work, to care, to cook and to clean. I am a mother hoping against hope that these people who rely on me so heavily don’t discover that really I am making it all up as I go along.
Sometimes, I cry. For the girl that wanted four children but never assumed the road would be anything but smooth, trouble free and idyllic. For the girl who assumed childbirth and all it’s messy glory was hers for the taking. For the girl who thought motherhood was nothing but love.
Sometimes I cry. Because this journey I’m on is so exquisite and unforgiving in its beauty and it’s barb. Because that little hand on my leg won’t always be little and those little footsteps outside won’t always be seeking me. Because one day, the tears won’t come. I won’t cry. I won’t feel. I won’t be. And that is the most scary part of all.