I suppose I could Google it but I guarantee the idea of cloning was created by a Mom. The person who at least 75 times a day wishes there was more time. Time for yourself. Time to not feel guilty that you want more time. Time to fight the good fight.
I had a kid and immediately, without even knowing it, strapped on the weaponry to fight the good fight. The battle is simple and ugly and sits in the corner of my heart whether or not I choose to acknowledge it: I love her but I also loved my life before her.
The emotional fallout I think of as two buckets. (From the Martha Stewart collection, with a small pretty rosebud pattern in that shade of pink that water colourists like.)
The first bucket: the one you fill every time you regret the day that passed and the movie you didn’t watch, the book you didn’t pick up from it’s spine flattened perch, the recipe you didn’t march neatly into a pot and inhale, the sleep you gave away, slipping out the window and hiding in someone else’s bed, those son of a f-cking bitches who are still asleep with their lucky mouths half open. The bucket that overflows when the “light of your life” rears back and wallops you in the ass when you’re making her dinner. It’s envy and greed and panic and wrath and slimy excuses and it’s full. Mine is always full.
