She is draped in white. The sunlight streams through the clear glass of the window as she sings softly to the quiet infant in her arms. She sways gently side to side, and the infant nuzzles into the pillows of her breasts.
This is the mother I dreamed of being. Everything about her is soft. Her voice, her hair, her body.
I call bullshit. Motherhood has made me hard. Being a parent takes strength I didnít know I had.
I am my childrenís advocate.
I am their voice. Their safe place.
I am the smile when my toddler wants to nurse in a crowded room, knowing I will be judged.
I am the push when the doctor dismisses the fever, knowing I will be patronised.
I am the patience through the supermarket tantrum, knowing I will be ďtskdĒ at.
I am the bounce when the baby needs the comfort of my moving body, knowing my muscles will ache in the morning.
I am the song sung 7 times in a row, the hug when Iím touched out and the†band-aid for the imagined hurt.
Most days I am dirty, tired and filled with more joy than I could have ever imagined. Motherhood is nothing like I dreamed it to be. To all the strong motherís out there, you are everything they need you to be.