Why Love is a Sickness

Another day. Another day as a woman. Another day as a mother. Another Mother’s Day.

When I started blogging about my life as a woman in the deep, dark throws of parenthood, my first post about this Hallmark holiday was–dare I say–kinda dark (I was just entering into my angry phase, againread all about it).

Then I posted about finding a moment of simple joy in the chaos of my life and the swirling, whirling dervish of my family around me on “my” day (check it out). And again, I posted about another Mother’s day–that time in reflection, about my own wonderful, entirely flawed Mom (read that one here).

But today, when another Mother’s Day winds down, and I’m weighed down with homemade cards, paper flowers, sweet, slightly self-centric 7-year old poetry, and a belly full of cheese fondue, I’m happy (and not just because I have a belly full of cheese).
 
I love my insane, irritating, nose-picking, bum-scratching children. I love them all. With all their faults, and complaints, and dirt, and noise, and sticky-fingeredness, and rather individually annoying peccadillos. I love them.
 
How can I explain the kind of love a mother feels for her children? The kind of love I feel for my children (you know I’m going to try to explain, don’t you?)

My love is like this overwhelming, overheated, slightly nauseating feeling–like the feeling you get, just before you throw up. You know, when your body is hot all over and you’re so full you’re sure you’re going to burst. You’re sure you’re skin is stretched so thin it simply can’t contain that much of any one thing–you’re just going to explode. Explode with white-light-blinding love.
 
Now, I fully understand that comparing the intense love I have for my children to vomiting is perhaps not the most elegant analogy, but, please, try to be kind–2 pounds of swiss cheese in my stomach is bloating me like a bloody life raft and clouding my thinking (and I’d bet, dollars to donuts–of God, don’t mention food–that I won’t poop for a week, bloody, bowel-binding, delicious, delicious cheese). But, for today, I’ll lick my fingers, and fork, and plate, and the pot, and kiss my kids, and be glad I know what it feels like to be filled up with love (and dairy). 
 
Good night my darlings. Sleep well. I love you.
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