Real talk, this weekend, motherhood drove me right directly to the edge. Not sure the edge of what, but I was teetering right there. And I know that babies are a miracle and a gift and whatnot, but honestly, sometimes my miraculous gift helps me pack my bags for the crazy train.

I don't want to complain too much and come off whiney, because I really get that there is a whole fleet of people in the world who would love to be parents and for a variety of reasons, cannot. And every night, while I lay next to my sleeping baby, I know that when all is said and done, I will surely look to the sky and be grateful to motherhood as the best gift of my life.

I'm just going to come out and say that being a working mom is seriously tough. I listened to Duke cry for roughly three days straight, and on Sunday, I said "shut up, please" to my baby and then immediately started crying because I felt bad. I talked to a stay-at-home-mom who who had a baby around the same time that I had Duke. She told me she's already cleared nine of her new years resolution to read fifteen books, and I burned bright disgusting green with jealousy. I said things like "how nice!" and "what's your favorite so far?" but what bounced around in my brain was "what's it like to have time to read? And fiction, even."

Sleep deprivation is making me an asshole. Admittedly more than usual, because I recognize that I tend to accidentally toe the line on a regular basis, but waking up every two hours with a crabby baby is shoving me right over that edge. Huh, I guess I figured out what the edge was after all.