I hate the way you remind me daily that my babies are no longer babies. That they’re growing so incredibly fast.
I hate the way you make it hard to recall these sweet and fleeting moments from the past.
I hate the way you make me think that my babies are innocent little angels incapable of any misdoing. How could they ever act up when you only show me videos of their infantile cooing?
I hate the way you make my ovaries go all fluttery like a bird.
I hate how you make me say idiotic things to my husband like, “Maybe we should have a third!”
I hate when you show me pictures of myself before I had our kids.
I hate that you let me know how much our social life hit the skids
I hate the way you bring out the mom guilt that I’m not savoring each day
I hate that I feel like I didn’t enjoy these moments, instead for bedtime I did pray
I hate the way you soften the edges of what I was going through at the time. That mombie status wasn’t really so bad when you have cute kids on the line
I hate when I realize that my kids will never be that little again as hard as mom-ing can be
I hate that you show me it’s all been worth it, even if each sneeze now lets out a little pee
Mostly, I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. Keep those cute baby picture flashbacks coming. Sorry, I couldn’t make that part rhyme.