Dear Diary,I do not think that I will ever get used to being a mother. It is not something that can be perfected; like riding a bike or cooking. Instead, parenting is like a never-ending practice of, well, everything. I do not like to admit how difficult I find it, because I feel as though actually saying the words aloud would make me a failure, and that is something I can not tolerate.
Before being blessed with a set of my own, I had never really appreciated the skills every mother must possess in order to run a household satisfactorily. Belle and Gage have thoroughly transformed the way I look at the world. Some days, I think I might forget my head if it weren't attached, and I still somehow manage to maintain (barely) enough self-control to take care of them.
I do not mean to complain and, trust me, that it is certainly not my intention. I wouldn't trade motherhood for the world. Still, I can not just sit back and lie about my every day life being as smooth as silk. I made a point, a long time ago, about being honest with my self, and I'm not going to stop now just because I fear that it might question my integrity as a mother.
Less than half the time (if it was any more, I think I might go insane from fear) I do not have a clue as to where my children are. Belle is younger than Gage, who grew recently, but she is (amazingly) worse behaved, and the instant I take my eyes off of her, runs to the barn to torture the cats. I can not even begin to count the number of times I've rescued a kitten from a slightly rough (though, surely well meant) bath. My girl is so young. She does not understand that the kittens don't like the water, and I have my fingers crossed that someday she'll grasp the concept of compassion.
Belle likes to get what she wants, and I do my best not to over-indulge her. My mother spoiled my brother and me, and while, I suppose, we didn't turn out too badly, I think giving Belle everything she desires would not be a good thing. It would go to her head and she would be under the rather false impression that the world bows at her every whim. If I do not try to alter that particular piece of her mindset, I fear that my poor little girl will be in for a rude awakening when she's older.
Gage, like his younger sister, also likes to get what he wants- but he is above throwing tantrums. He is an ingenious child and, more than half the time, does not even bother to ask me if he can. He simply just does and, to my utter frustration and exasperation, I rarely catch him. If it weren't for the mischievous twinkle in his eye and that damned smirk, I doubt that I would have any inclination as to the trouble he gets up to. I suppose, that this behavior is left over from his life as a criminal. I can not be sure, but I suspect that much of Xerxes still thrives in the cheerful form of my little boy.
No mother likes to admit that their children have faults, but I simply can not deny them. They are not bad children by any means and I love them more than the world, but I worry that whatever guidance I have to offer them might not be enough.
Perhaps, it might be time to enlist the help of another.
Yours Truly,
Green
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