I, for one, am not. However, I just happened to pick up a novel that turns out to be a quasi-romance. Despite it's rather predictable plot and foolish drama, I am caught up. While the cat is furiously attempting to push his way into my hands (he'd like me to toss the book aside and devote myself entirely to petting him), and the baby, in some far distant room begins to awake, and the dishes sit waiting hopefully to be stacked in the dishwasher, I read:
I fell in love, though I shouldn't have. I knew it could only lead to disaster, but I still felt an animal hunger for her that I couldn't supress. It kept me up at night. Occasionally, I felt like I had a fever. I was sick with wanting her. Yet there was no reason for it. I hardly knew her. She walked into the party, I saw her face, and I loved her; it was that simple. She would never have me. But if I had her? I would bury myself in her. I would bury myself inside her.
Well, no real man has ever had those thoughts. That's why fiction is so fantastic. And, of course, I'm rooting for our hero; I want him to get the girl. I want them to have their burning, fabulous, soul-drenching love fest--and then? Well, then, the book is over, and the kitchen waits.
I think of the excellent children's book Is Your Mama a Llama? Ellias remembers it and we haven't had it out from the library in a year. I am not a llama. (Just noticing this). But, occasionally, I do seem to remember that I am not just a mother.