I haven’t killed the first two. That’s all the risk I’m willing to take.
Yes I love holding your babies, because when they start to smell bad, I get to hand them back. I loved my babies too. And I get to look through my half finished scrapbooks of when they were tiny and precious and block out all the sleepless nights and breastfeeding angst memories in exchange for oooing over tiny baby feet and knitted outfits that make them look like pokemon creatures. I can make my hormonal daughters look at dewy-eyed images of their mini-me’s and say, “See how cute you were when you loved me unconditionally, all those long years ago”.
There is a feeling of great accomplishment and freedom when your children finally start becoming self sufficient. Not the full ‘I can clean up my own shit’ or ‘I don’t need fifty bucks because I earned my own money this week’ level, but at least if I ditch them for an evening, I won’t come home to find them crying, hungry and sitting in a mound of their own excrement.
Having children that feed themselves, clothe themselves and occasionally make a decision I agree with is enough to keep me happy. It lets me focus on going back to school and making MYSELF into a useful person again. I remember being one of those once. Before I had babies the first time around.