The more famous Sue wrote (as Adrian Mole):
"I sometimes wish I wasn't a parent, even when I am alone I carry [my children] with me, across my shoulders and inside my heart."
I should be asleep right now, but parenting hurts too much tonight. It hurts me in my tummy, which gets kicked all day; it hurts me in my breasts, from a little tooth only just venturing out; it hurts me in my wrists, injured and needing surgery soon; and it hurts me with a cold and vicious guilt inside me, keeping me up bleary-eyed and restless.
I learnt, oh, years ago, that loving hurts. Loving your parents hurt, when they let you grow up (and even when they don't). Loving a sibling hurts, if your sibling is my brother. And loving somebody outside the circle, somebody you went and decided to love, that hurts too, especially inside your chest, for utterly inexplicable reasons, mostly when they turn away. But I swear loving your baby hurts worst of all. Loving a perfect little thing and yet being perfectly ready and willing to hold a pillow down over his head until he stops wailing. Being distraught with guilt and resentment when you are told that the reason he is so clingy is because you have spent so much time away these last two days -- when you have pretty much put whatever made up your life for 20 odd years on hold because of him.
And yet, despite the pain and the resentment, I can't walk away. Nobody knows him and his temperament like I do. They only love him but I know my son. And knowing him as I do, I carry him inside me still. Even when he's asleep in his cot, stirring restlessly in the heat, even when his lips part ever so slightly as he breathes, he is really inside me, in the deepest reaches of my heart, a little boy I will never let go.
Love hurts, and tonight, I just wish it would stop and let me sleep.