You’re Not the Boss of Me

I have three beautiful girls, one who has recently graced us with her presence 3 weeks ago.  They are my main employers these days.  I don’t get all of the perks, such as a raise, sick days, adult interaction and coffee breaks.  I do get awesome drawings, demands for independence, and an opportunity to coo over a newborn baby again.  Its like a luxury contract with a clause in tiny print.

I have never worked for a more demanding boss, let alone three!  Between potty breaks, diaper changes, and signing permission slips, it’s hard to imagine that I haven’t grown a second and third pair of arms.  The wonderful thing about being a mother is that it is ingrained in a woman’s DNA to perfect multi-tasking and the ability to function without sleep.  I laugh when I think of it as a way of survival.  Do we accept this lifetime of servitude because we’re crazy?  During a moment of frenzy, I may utter a few expletives and call myself crazy.  Though, the majority of the time I have really good days and zero complaints.  I can’t think of a time in my life where I would willingly drop everything for another human being more than my own girls. 

As for my bosses, (did I mention that there are three?) I always imagined hearing them say at some point “You’re not the boss of me” in a fit of irrational anger.  Terrible twos and terrible eights are what I deal with right now, and it wouldn’t surprise me.  I feel like I’m constantly trying to keep up with their attitudes and mood swings, that sometimes I’m left with my head spinning.  Ironically enough, I’ve been catching myself saying “You’re not the boss of me” in an exasperated tone.  I feel like the kid here, saying it but knowing that I will still attend a tea party, or play taxi cab for a day.  They hardly know it but they ARE the boss of me.  And proudly enough, I won’t do a thing about it.

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