When I was in my 20s and at the height of my delusions of grandeur, a gay friend said to me in a fit of drunken cattiness, "You think you're so hot, but you'll end up a breeder cow like all the rest!" Ten years later, I am living his prophecy.

When I was thirteen, my sister was born to my relatively insane parents, who were separated at the time. My father had a massive heart attack soon after she was born, and my mom tended him while I got up for midnight bottle feedings. After he began to heal, their marriage never recovered, and I was the designated nanny who worked for free. My bitterness at being thrust into so much responsibility so young had me ix-naying the thought of caring for any children of my own ever.

My twenties were about one thing: myself. Being a drunken slut was so fun! Leaving home at age nineteen I discovered the crazy coincidence that the further I got away from my parents, the happier I was. I also discovered the joys of self-medicating. Suffering from teenage trauma and OCD, I needed serious relief. Alcohol was surely not the healthiest choice, but it worked so well I was the happiest drunk in Chico, which is saying a lot.

All this attitude adjustment gave me confidence for the first time in my life. I fancied myself the funniest, smartest, prettiest egomaniac on the block. After no boy in my high school would touch me with a ten foot pole, the opposite sex were finally paying me some attention. I thought I could go forever on the fuel their attention gave my ego, and I would be queen bee of the bars and a hundred pounds forever.

Then around the time I turned twenty-six nature took over. I started gazing spacily at babies I saw in public. I felt the need to hold one so badly I thought I might drool on myself. It was inexplicable. At the time I was a homeless house sitter and bartender. Not the most stable of worlds. It didn't matter; I wanted a baby so bad I ached. I chalked it up to instinct, but perhaps it was the allure of the opposite of the life I was leading. I was sick of partying and dating, and knew that long term the temporary happiness of a good buzz held no future for me.

What saved me was the accidental pregnancy of my roommate, and the reality that entered her life in the form of single parenthood and welfare. She had to live with her mother an hour up a dirt road from Nevada City in a trailer. It's painful for me to think about this time in her life and how alone she must have felt. It was a timely lesson for me. Her responsibilities, loneliness, and hard work were sobering, and reminded my of the frustration I felt when forced to watch my sister while the rest of the world had fun. Still, I knew I was going to breed someday even if I had to use a sperm donor.

Most women probably end up with this breeder cow fate no matter where we may have been headed up to meeting "the one" or getting knocked up. Lesbian or straight, white or brown, atheist or religious, advanced degree or barely a high school grad—the majority of us become moms sooner or later. I fancied I would continue traveling to exotic lands until I earned my M.A., then possibly hook up with a house-husband to tend the children I effortlessly bred.

When I did meet "the one" I wondered immediately at how funny fate is. He was right for me, but was he right for breeding? He had as much alcoholism in his family as I did, and was at least half as neurotic. In high school I read alcoholism is a genetic predisposition, and I was hoping for someone to balance out the bad genes my father provided me in the form of whiskey love. I married him anyway of course, and insisted if we waited for the perfect time to have kids, we'd be waiting forever. Five years and two kids later, I am a breeder cow.

After the first few months of being a first time mom I started thinking there was something wrong with me. When I had been pregnant, it seemed like everyone who noticed my pregnancy would have the same response: the you're-so-lucky-they-are-such-a-gift ramblings that left me glowing. According to everyone, I was entering into the most wonderful experience in my life. When it sucked, I thought there was something very wrong with me. Could nothing make me happy? It never occurred to me I'd been receiving the edited version.

The shock of losing my identity to gain a family was devastating. Fighting so hard to keep some semblance of myself and my sanity took every ounce of my being. I found myself isolated, constipated, and plumb crazy with the worst flare up of OCD symptoms since childhood. I was incapacitated by anxiety and sleep deprivation. I had always prided myself on being organized, quick-thinking, and punctual. Forget all that, I could not remember my social security number after the baby came. I was far too ashamed to admit it wasn't wonderful.

My nipples split so badly after my first attempts at breastfeeding they had deep, pulpy fissures in them. The shock to my digestive system after a cesarean kept me from moving my bowels for nine days. I had to buy my first enema at Longs while my mom watched the baby. At the hospital they kept saying, "You can't leave until you fart." My husband said he'd never actually wanted me to fart before. On the seventh day I had a full blown anxiety attack so acute I could hardly speak. My girlfriend who was visiting gave me a long, hard look, and then went and bought me groceries. All I could do is feel worse because I though I didn't deserve her in my depressed state.

It's very hard to explain having OCD, so I don't. In my past attempts to explain, people start to get that look in their eyes that says "craaaaaazy" and my husband just looks bored. Let's just say it is a frustrating, complete loss of control where your own mind is your worst enemy. A doctor once tried to give me medication to lessen the symptoms, and it only reaffirmed by belief in moderate self medicating. The Prozac made me so sick with side effects it was like having the flu, while also suffering from insomnia and dementia. Paxil was even worse.

Aside from my mental tics, the hardest part of becoming a parent was that I never saw myself as a traditional mom or housewife. I fought this identity tooth and nail. I've always loved quiet and sleep and being by myself. Children are noisy, dirty, space invaders who could care less if you need a little me time. It left me claustrophobic and missing my books and movies. Worst of all was the staying home while my husband became the breadwinner. He has never once alluded to my not bringing in money as a problem, but I resented him nonetheless because the arrangement set me up as the primary caregiver and housecleaner. My mother was a feminist, and this was not right.

People kept saying to me at first, "It gets better." I thought they were lying because they saw the look on my face, but it was true. Very slowly, very subtly, things started making sense again. It was a whole new kind of sense. An Alice in Wonderland bizarre kind of sense, but eventually it started feeling comfortable.

It wasn't until the birth of my second child last fall that I realized I had truly surrendered and stopped fighting my role in this strange new world. I was a mom first whether I liked it or not and the second child sealed the deal. It was a happy surrender, and for the first time I felt what all the childbirth cheerleaders were talking about: the head over heels in love feeling for a little grub that does nothing but eat, cry and poop.

It took me a while to realize you can feel trapped and resentful and pine for your swinging single days and still be a good mom. I love my kids no less than the woman who knew from the age of five she wanted nothing more than to be a mommy. I love that I have girls so I can teach them life is one big dichotomy, and there's no reason to go beating yourself up because you love your slave master children deeply and crave selfhood at the same time. Most of all, I'm going to teach them to listen to their own hearts and logic, because there is no such thing as the perfect anything, and definitely not a perfect mommy.

Renee Verran is a housewife and writer who is currently working from home while tending to daughters Isabella, 3, and Ruby, 9 months.