To Be or Not to Be with My Kids - That is A Mother's Question

     I used to call my father the eternal see-saw, his bi-polar personality rising and falling within minutes. Now, I find my heart's the eternal see-saw, an indecisive organ, constantly changing heights on whether it wants to be with my children or not. When they are gone, I need them. The prickling feeling growing under my skin that part of me is missing. Worrying and wondering what their time apart from me is like.
     But when they are near me, I prickle up another way, my temper rising like a cat's arched back warning them to back off and give me space. I feel hunted, my every thought winnowed out of me like the director's cut of my life, as they interrogate my every look, word, and silence. "Why are you smiling? What are you looking at? What are you doing on the computer?"
     I feel defensive. Why should I explain myself to a six-year-old? He shadows me from room to room imitating my every move, crawling into my every space, watching me like a nervous stalker. Sometimes, I find it adorable. The way he mimics me. Or crawls into my lap petting the skin on my arm and telling me I the best mommy ever. My heart bursts with a love I never knew till motherhood.  I cuddle him closer smelling his warm hair and marveling that he is mine. But I'm his too.
     That's the part that prickles my nerves. The ownership. The never having space or time that is fully mine anymore. The invasion of the body snatchers mentality that comes with once sharing your body with your child. They feel entitled to have everything that is yours. Not that I'm selfish. I'll gladly share with my sons. I'll happily give them what I'm eating. Just not directly off my plate or out of my hands. I love sharing stories and experiences with them. Just not when I'm in the middle of peeing or chewing or lugging six bags of groceries into the house. That's when I want to run away and lock the door ignoring small begging voices of "mommy, let me in," and crayon-colored heart love notes slipped under the door.
     That's when I call 911 grandma or ship them to camp or a friend's house. So I can breathe, sit in glorious silence, watch a grown-up show with no animation or smart-ass precocious kids, eat a whole bar of chocolate by myself, and remember who I am as an individual. I can finish a thought in my head without it derailing to police a sibling squabble or find a lost shoe. I can read a book, take a long shower, and find time to write. All things that make me happy and are necessary for sanity.
     But there's still that small pull at the back of my heart wondering what I'm missing out on. Opening the photo app on my phone, so I can gaze lovingly at my boys. They always look so much sweeter and peaceful in pictures. And suddenly I want to hold them and kiss their squishy faces and dance them around the living room like maniacs to Taylor Swift and Pharrell. So I finish my work, a smile imbedded wide across my face as I collect them from wherever I shipped them off to. A warm hug and a squealed "Mommy" melts my heart. Then five minutes and a full-on backseat war later, over the "good" headphones, and I'm wondering if I can take them back.
     Don't get me wrong. We have many wonderful, magical times together with minimal whining and fighting. They have enriched my experiences of the world. And I love them dearly.
     But they have also dispelled my heightened expectations of outings making me break down in silent expletives and rue ever taking them out of the house ever again.
     I think most mothers, especially those with more than one child have experienced this mixed bag of emotions that come with child-rearing. The insatiable need to be with them and the desire to tape their mouths shut with duct tape and run away to the beach or a bar or anywhere.
    

It's like the daily struggle for identity. Am I mom or am I me? Is motherhood my identity or just one facet of my personality? I teeter up and down with my need to be with and away from my children usually in the same minute.