Three years. I had been waiting for this moment. Giving me hope and a life jacket to put on when storms and waves of exhaustion were crushing and shattering my afflicted self. I remember the giggles. The Pampers. The love. And every single detail of the moments leading up to my resenting being a mother. And it was not just sleep deprivation.

Some days I was so happy no one could bridle the rush of euphoria and inspiration flowing from me. But most of the time I was embedded deep within exasperation tramping around in my lounge pajamas, seeking purpose and validation where there were only bottles and diapers, and severely disparaging my decision to stay home with my children. Life was sneering at me chomping down a little bit of my sanity every morning I woke up. And my boys were not even 1

Three years. And the day has finally come. Kindergarten. The dawn of socialization and fashionable clothing. An enchanting life that would gravitate around me, heels, and me. I thought that this would be it. But. It is so not. As children grow up, problems and dilemmas tangle, schedules must be readjusted, abiding streaks need to be fulfilled, and souls have to be enlightened. It does get easier. But not like I had predicted. Obligations and responsibilities pile up. Hours and chores expand. But surprisingly, so does my ability to love my children. And to respect myself. My sons shape my life. Every sigh, word, dream, emotion and thought. Being a mother is not a job I can quit or have a day off from. It is a lifetime assignment. It will never be completed. But I am now fully embracing it.

via Creative-Reporterwritten by Irene Nam, also known as the MOMster; a writer living in Paris surviving twinshock, blank page days and dog poop. You can read about her life on her personal blog www.irenenam.squarespace.com