The difficulty of the world didn’t hit me full-force until I was an older child.<\/h3>\n

Still young and fairly innocent, I think I was seven or eight when I realized that not all kids were very nice.<\/p>\n

I was, maybe, 12 or 13 when I understood that some kids were downright mean.<\/p>\n

I was 14 or 15 when I started to become\u00a0resentful.<\/p>\n

I was 17 or 18 when I realized that bitter resentment was mainly harmful to me.<\/p>\n

I was 25 or 26 when I finally started to understand, and own, self-love.<\/p>\n

I was 30 going on 31 when I would welcome my first child and, cliche as it is, really understand what love is.<\/p>\n

Now, at\u00a035 going on 36, I know just enough<\/em> to suspect that it’s not true when other parents tell me that the easier years wait ahead, with my children currently ages five and one.<\/p>\n

Raising two girls is not a task that I take lightly, although it is a pleasure and a joy and something that I try to lighten up into; trying to bring a sense of easy fun into our mother-daughter relationship while also honoring the sheer importance of being a parent.<\/p>\n

I’m writing\u00a0this\u00a0while the kids are playing in an\u00a0adjoining room with my husband; football,\u00a0snack munching and general roughhousing in the background.<\/p>\n

My friends tell me things like more sleep lies ahead and that it will get easier and that I’ll have more time for myself soon enough, but I don’t believe all of this and here’s why.<\/p>\n

My children, hopefully, will grow into teenaged bodies that I wrestle to wake up in the morning instead of our\u00a0current game of getting them to sleep. Still, when a woman becomes a mother, I don’t think sleep is ever the same again—a cry in the night is simply exchanged for another noise, like a door creaking open for a child to sneak out of the house.<\/p>\n

This isn’t to say that my home won’t have rules, regulations and expectations, but certain things—like sneaking out and hormonally-driven cry-fests—are symbolic stages of adolescence, regardless of the generation, for a reason.<\/p>\n

I take time for myself to work now—even for brief article-writing stretches like at present—and I will in upcoming years as well. Sure, I battle for just a half an hour to exercise\u00a0or a shower without company—and things like this will<\/em> become easier, simply because of full days at school.<\/p>\n

Just\u00a0a moment ago, I had to ask my five year old to stop coming over to my elbow as I write because I’m taking a short “timeout.” Will there be a point in a few years, when she won’t care as much what I’m doing, because she’s older with her own interests, and I am only one small part of them? I sincerely hope not, but, again, all typical signs point to “likely.”<\/p>\n

Being a parent when my kids are in high school, for example, is something that right now I can only imagine and, if my images of what early motherhood were like before actually having children are any indication, my predictions are probably way off. Regardless, I don’t plan on being less of a mother because my kids are older. As kids age, that’s when they need to know that we are around as listening ears and open arms.<\/p>\n

I’m not suggesting that we all helicopter around our blossoming children, but availability should absolutely remain a constant.<\/p>\n

So, yes, I hope that our house gets a little—or a lot—more sleep. I hope, even more, that my kids are so independent that they don’t need me as much as I’ll wish they did, but I won’t for one second believe that my girls don’t need a mother anymore because they have bras instead of tattered dolls.<\/p>\n

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