By Kami Lewis Levin
Ladies, we were flat out lied to. Period. All those teachers, parents, adult role models, and TV characters who constantly reiterated to us girls that we can do anything we put our minds to were effing liars. They didn’t find it necessary to share the fine print with us. They didn’t consider disclosing the gravity of the situation to us. Just like nobody told us that giving birth hurts like hell, nobody told us that choosing to be a working mom is a one-way ticket to our very own three-ring circus. Except the clowns are our children. And sometimes our husbands. And we are the tightrope walkers, fire-eaters, hoop-jumpers, trapeze artists, and lion tamers. And, on occasion, the lions. I am woman. Hear me roar, damn it.
After my second kid was born and operating under the mistaken assumption that I could give both my family and my job 110% of my energy (I was never very good at math), I spent the better part of the past year experiencing my own very special brand of culture shock. The kind where you just have to go to bed by 8. The kind where getting dressed to impress is simply not an option (you know, the whole drool, snot, poop, spit-up factor). The kind where a date with your husband involves a drug-addict like dependency on Netflix. The kind where your personal identity decides to go on hiatus, leaving a confused, spent, and in my case, fat, out of shape and depressed, shell of a person behind.
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