Sometimes I miss being mothered. Like when I place Em in her crib at nap time, all cozy with her binky and fuzzy blanket, and flip on her white noise machine, and turn out the lights. I think, oh how I wish it was my turn to be tucked in for a nap. Instead of start on the breakfast dishes. Or last night's dinner dishes.
Sure, adulthood has its perks (cookies for breakfast and no bedtime), but some days I think I'd gladly trade my independence for some genuine nurturing. I'd give up my frenzied freedom for the ease of having someone tell me what to eat, and when, and to make all the hard decisions life serves up on an all-too-regular basis. To be transported from place to place in the plush confines of a car seat. To be adored all day long.
Yes, I could go for that.
But unless Em wants to pull a Freaky Friday with me, I better resign myself to reality. It's my turn to do the mothering. The singing and cooking and kissing and tucking. The tear-drying and sideline cheering and carpool-driving. It's the only way I'll fully appreciate what my mom did for me.