The last time I had friends over, I ended the evening with a nice puddle of “too much milk” on my shirt.
The last unexpected day off I took was because of my first encounter with roseola.
I’ve never spent much time examining poop in my life. Now I do. Because poop says it all.
I speak French, English, and “baby talk”—that language that makes us look particularly (not) sane to outsiders.
When I’m shopping for clothes, I now ask myself just one question: where on earth am I going to be able to pull my breast out of this shirt to breastfeed? My
priorities have certainly changed. I’ve gone from the dilemma of choosing between high heels and leather boots to the dilemma of choosing between eating and washing myself.
On Friday nights, instead of shaking my hips on the dance floor, I’m doing the duck dance right in the middle of the living room, dressed in loose-fitting clothes.
It’s very different, but I wouldn’t go back for all the gold in the world. I’m a mom, and proud of it.
I’m a lioness of a mom who, for her children, wouldn’t hesitate for a second to throw herself into danger to protect them. The kind of mom for whom her little darlings matter more than her own life.
An anxious mom who always imagines the worst-case scenario, even against her will.
A mom who desperately wants to do her best and for whom the happiness of her little treasures is her top priority. I’m also a mom who, unfortunately, often forgets about herself. The one who has a hard time remembering that she’s also a woman, a friend, and a person in her own right. I’m a mom who feels way too guilty. I’m the one who sometimes worries so much it makes me sick.
Yes, I am all of that. I’m imperfect, but I’m fulfilled.
Above all, I am incredibly happy.
I am, quite simply, a mom.
Caroline Goudreault