Ugly Mommy

Being a mom can really suck.  Not because of my child, but because of myself.  I’m responsible for rearing this human being.  I’m going to mold, to an extent, her personality, the way she deals with conflict, the dealing (or not dealing) with emotional stress.  I am responsible for this.  Me, the addicted chic that has a real hard time with all of the aspects of life as it is for myself let alone another human being.  That sucks.

Of course being a mother is my greatest joy, as well.  It’s a strange thing, motherhood.  On one hand I feel like screaming up to God, “Yo!  You know who you just gave this child to, right?  You sure about this?!”  And on the other hand, I am brought to tears just watching her sleep; just looking at her little face.  She’s so beautiful and lovely and caring and she’s mine.  Something this beautiful came from me.  This big ol’ mess of me is where this perfect little angel came from, and is where she runs to for comfort when she’s hurt, or sad, or confused.  That’s the beautiful part…and the sucky part.  She counts on me.  She relies on me, and trusts me.  I can’t even rely on or trust myself half the time, and now I have this little person to love and protect and lead in the right direction. 

But then again, there she is; my beautiful little angel, reminding me that I am loveable.  Despite my flaws, and despite the fact that I was ugly to her that morning getting ready for school, she comes home to her Mommy.  She quickly forgives my ugliness and wants to tell me about her day.  She’s just happy to see me.  I suppose I should just enjoy the love now, before she becomes a teenager, and hates my very being.  I’ll take the passes on my ugliness for now, in hopes that maybe by the time she’s older, my patience will be highly evolved; patience mostly with myself, that is.

So, although sometimes being a mom is something that can tear you down to such a raw and weak state of mind, it’s also something that reminds you that you’re only human.  One day my little beauty might be a mommy and she will call me hysterically crying because she was just ugly to her child, and I’ll be able to smile and gently tell her that if I could get through it, and come out the other side a better, wiser, more patient person, then she can too.  I guess that should be my hope.  That all of the ugliness will teach me, and that by the time she’s an adult, I will be a better, wiser, and more patient person. I guess that’s all any of us can hope for, really; that the ugly, nasty imperfect parts of us will fade away behind the knowledge that we’re only human, and there is a light at the end of the ugly tunnel.