I love being a mother. I love holding babies as soon as they're born, admiring how perfect and beautiful they are, seeing their personalities develop, watching them learn and grow.
However, there are certain . . .shall we say, aspects, of the job that don't suit me quite so well.
Take, for instance, the event of roughly ten minutes ago. I'm sitting here reading my e-mail, see, and my two-year-old comes up to me, making a sad little meowing sound in the back of his throat (he likes to pretend to be a kitty) and holding his hand out to me. His thumb was extended and upon that thumb was the object of his concern.
A great big snot booger.
Luckily for me, that same child had just taken an entire package of napkins and scattered them all over the living room floor, so I had plenty of ammunition at hand. I grabbed a napkin, removed the offending item, and returned to my e-mail.
However, there is balance in all things.
Less than two minutes after that, the child in question came up to me, tucked his dear little hand in mine, and said, "holding hands." Then he folded his arms and demonstrated how to say a prayer, starting with, "Hebenwy Fodder." It just doesn't get any better than that.