On being a grown up

As a kid I remember that delicious feeling in the morning of knowing I didn't HAVE to get out of bed. The moment after my eyes would flutter open and I'd get my barrings on the time and day, and I'd realize it was Saturday. I'd cuddled down into my pillow and under my blanket and relax into round two of deep sleep. It was pure joy.

I don't think there is any equivalent in adulthood. Maybe when the kids are with Grandma and I get a chance to sleep in. But no. Because in that first moment of consciousness I think about the kids and wonder if they're OK, sleeping well, having fun, missing us.

There is the tug of responsibility, the awareness of being a parent much of the time. Don't get me wrong, there are times when I am completely in my own self. When I'm so in the moment of some engaging whatever.... writing in the newsroom, running in a race, reading an amazing book, lost in new songs on iTunes, debating with friends over wine, absorbed behind my camera lens... that I forget all about the fact that I'm a grownup. But in those moments of solitude and silence, the times when I should be able to relax, I am often keenly aware of being Mom.

I don't know if it is a gender thing, or a me thing, but unlike every other title I've ever worn, I can't check being the parent, grownup, or mom, at the door. I consider this a flaw. Perhaps it is like a bad habit that I must simply focus on and conquer. Is there a 12 step program for mom-ness?

Not that I don't want to be the grown up. I relish my role, love my family and can't imagine life without my three children. But, (oh yes, that big mom but!) But sometimes I wish when I first woke up I could throw the covers over my head with reckless abandon. That I could let the silence of solitude surround me and just be.

Maybe I'm afraid I will forget what its like to be ever presently Mom. And that in a blink of an eye my babies will be the grown ups. And I will long for them, long for feeling responsible for them, long for when quiet was a brief gift.

I don't know. Perhaps I should stop writing now, and just listen... to... the ... silence.