We used to be friends, you and I. So comfortable together. I used to spend many hours dreamily engulfed in the calm and peaceful feelings your presence imparted. We were together all the time. Whenever I needed you, you were there. Instantly.
But since I became a mother, you've been ... scarce. With the addition of each child, you've grown even more distant. You're rarely around in my day-to-day life any more, only popping up on rare occasions. My life has taken a path that clearly doesn't facilitate our togetherness. So now, in those few-and-far-between times when you come around, I can barely enjoy you like I used to.
I have to admit, when you're here, it feels kind of weird. Awkward, you might say. I'm not used to you being around, the way I once was. I always say I'd like to see more of you, joke that a few minutes with you might save my sanity - but to be honest, while there are still times when I welcome you, it seems somehow wrong when you're in the room. It's like I don't know quite how to act around you these days.
We've grown apart; that's all there is to it. And maybe someday when my kids are grown and there's less laughter and playing and drama and chaos around here, you and I can reconcile. You'll come around a lot more often, and I can be completely at ease with your presence once again.
But until then, Silence, I've just got to do the Mom thing. And there's not much room for both of you.
I'll see you (and your friends Peace and Quiet) on the flip side.