On Motherhood

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Motherhood is not rational. It is not an emotion nor an instinct.
It transcends all of my previous experience and understanding about meaning and living.
Though my weary state blurs my perceptions, I am full and very much alive, more so than I thought I could be or would be.
Petty conundrums and quagmires have dissipated into biological production and preservation.
I have turned self into a minute detail, a light concept of what my life was before.
But at the same time, motherhood has connected me to a new world of mothers, a sisterhood of sacrifice and sleeplessness with a base of elation untouchable by most.

Motherly love is a peculiar addiction the way it spills into your life and pools in your thoughts.
An obsession that tires as much as it thrills.
a giggle, a tug at my shirt is enough to justify me and my living, leaving me little need or want,
sometimes a dangerous fulfillment that abandons me shortsighted with no need for glasses.
Balance is difficult to achieve when all you think you require is happily drooling in front of you.

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