Everybody writes nowadays about what it means to be a mother. Even fathers have started publishing articles and books on the subject of being a parent. Motherhood is for me a far more classical experience as I did not dream of having a child and I did not consider a life without offspring as sad or meaningless. I took a chance and let the gods decide if I was fit to have a child, if I deserved to witness such a miracle and if I was capable to conceiving and raising a baby. Apparently, the heavens believed such a charge compatible with my husband and I.
Since I am one of those people who write about everything and nothing, mostly for myself and sometimes because I feel too strongly that some thoughts and reactions in life must be made public, I have diaries dedicated to the development of my child. I write blog posts about some of the events in our life together and I write letters to my friends telling them about certain incidents or special moments. I mentally revised my diaries over the last two years (I started writing about the subject before the actual birth, when my son was still in my womb) and I came to a staggering conclusion.
I often speak of the fatigue involved in raising a child. I often complain to my friends that I am extremely tired and that I miss having time for myself. I know full well that all mothers are sometimes worn out and beat and all they need is simply.. a break. But I seem not to view this as a long-term essential detail as I have never put it on paper in my diary entries. Apparently my subconscious does not see this exhaustion as essential. It is not recorded in the handwritten milestones of post-child life and I am relieved and happy to note that this is how things stand in my case.