When I was around 6 years old I decided that if my family was being held hostage by terrorists and the only thing that would save them was drinking a gallon of expired milk (this was the worst thing my 6 year old self could imagine having to do … and these fantasy terrorists had pretty intense demands) I would do it. I would boldly chug that gallon of rotten milk and forever be the family favorite.
I still find myself irrationally trying to balance out my karma by making imaginary negotiations – not with fake terrorists who like making kids chug rotten milk – but with the universe. The negotiations seem to happen a lot in the middle of the night when Fox has woken for the 6th time in 5 hours. “Dear God, would you trade dark chocolate for sleep? I’ll never eat it again if I can just get four hours of uninterrupted sleep. Okay I’ll even take three hours.” Or my (lack of) sleep logic will tell me that it was because my sister puked through her entire pregnancy that she was blessed with sleeping babies. “This is what I get for never throwing up while I was pregnant.” It’s like there is one big universal scorecard at play and I’m making up the weird-ass rules as I go.
Good and bad, becoming a mom is more than I could have ever bargained for. Every day comes with new compromises, sacrifices, and negotiations. But most days I come out feeling like I’ve made it out on top … and I didn’t even have to chug a gallon of milk for it.