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All I wanted was an hour of quiet time. And my children (even though they were both clearly exhausted) flat-out refused to nap. It’s moments like this that I wonder: Do they really belong to me?

Sleeping is one of my special gifts. I can sleep anywhere, anytime. I have fallen asleep in airplanes, in restaurants, under the piano of a large hotel, in bowling alleys, on top of a freezer. It is only rarely that I have difficulty sleeping. This is one of those times.

Since the beginning of my last week at Work, I cannot sleep. I cannot fall asleep and I cannot stay asleep. The caffeine that I am addicted to may be a contributing factor but let’s take a closer look: My fingertips are raw. Literally. They are a mass of tiny open wounds, all but one self-inflicted. I am a nail-biter and when I am anxious, I am a skin picker. I systematically destroy the skin surrounding my nails until it is an oozy, bleeding mess. It’s disgusting and I know it. Usually I can limit myself to just one or two fingers—typically my thumbs. Right now, all my fingers are in play.

Yes, I’m aware of how lucky I am to have this opportunity to be with my kids. I get it and I am thankful. This should have been an easy decision. And yet, it was, and is, difficult for me to make this choice. It IS the right choice for me as well as for my family. I truly believe this. It’s just that in some small way, I can’t help but feel as though I’m quitting on a part of myself.  It’s hard being a mom.  It’s hard to make a career.  Reconciling the two halves of the whole might be the hardest of all.

Boys are different from girls. This is a truth I have only really understood since having kids. Anyone who tells you otherwise has not had enough on-the-ground field experience. Boys and girls are just wired differently.

With that in mind: I had to give Henry a little anatomy lesson this morning (he is my youngest at age three). I found him perusing his eight-year-old brother’s Justice League book, which Liam had purposefully kept away from him. Henry was intently studying one page, so naturally, I went over to see what he was looking at. It was a picture of who I presumed was Wonder Woman’s nemesis — a scantily clad woman with an extraordinary bosom.

“What are you looking at, Henry?”

Henry removed his thumb from his mouth, nodded at the picture and said, “Sheeth got big hipth.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes. “Can you show me where her hips are?”

He pointed at her exploding pectoral area and said, “Right there!”

“Those are her breasts, Henry. Her hips are here, just like your hips are here,” and I grabbed him by the hips and turned him away from the picture to face me. I smiled winningly at him. He immediately squirmed away to look at the book again.

“Well, Mommy, then sheeth got big breathts.”

I sighed. So much for distraction. “Yes, Henry, she does. And I think that’s enough Justice League for today.”

A boob man at age three.

I quit my job.

It’s true.  I walked away from my flexible, pays good money, takes me cool places job that I like very much.  As my mother said once and thought repeatedly:  What makes a person give up her good government job in a failing economy ON PURPOSE?

Clearly the answer is:  I’m crazy.  Totally bonkers.

But even so, I gave my decision a lot of thought (mostly while consuming alcoholic beverages and driving my car–not at the same time, mind you).  I have three kids.  I am overwhelmed with love for them and by the little details of their lives, my husband’s life, our lives together.  My life is so intertwined with theirs that I am less aware of “it” and the details of “me” than I used to be.  And I am a self-centered person.  I was going to say that I am a little self-centered but when one is self-centered, it isn’t a half-way kind of thing.

All parents make choices, big and small, every day.  This blog is about one woman’s choices.  This is my story.