There are some answers here that at first gander, you might think are the real answer, such as:
To pee alone. Sure, I’d love to pee alone. I would adore going to Walmart without having to schlep a child in the stall with me and tell another one to stand outside the stall door and look at the floor. I have boys. One is seven and one is two. It’s dangerous to let the oldest go to the restroom by himself. I’ve let him twice and the fact that I ducked my head in and out of the door repeatedly, and the looks that I got from the men coming out, told me that we’re not ready for that step yet. We’re just not.
To eat warm food alone. Somedays I could absolutely snap. As soon as I sit down to eat, I’m popping up like a Jack-in-the-Box to get something else for someone else. It never fails. I know that as soon as I sit down, I’ve not served everyone everything under the sun, along with the kitchen sink. Then there are more hands than mine in my plate. Those hands come with guilt because if I don’t come off the said food, out comes, “but Mommy, I just want one.” Um-huh, um-huh, um-huh, SO DO I. What about about me? That’s an ongoing joke my besties and I have.
To have a normal phone conversation. Ordinarily, no one wants anything until I get on the phone. When I get on the phone, I feel like have Tourette’s. Seriously, a normal phone conversation. Is that too much to ask?
Now that I’ve stated three things moms want, let’s get to the real McCoy.
I want my breasts back.
Yes, I said it. I don’t want deflated balloons that I will eventually be able to tuck in my belt (clearly, it won’t be that long, either). I want MY breasts back. The ones that were once perky, life-like, vibrant, youthful, small and lovely. No, I don’t want augmentation, it sounds like an antibiotic. Give me a break, I birthed these children. I sacrifice food, peeing and phone. Why can’t I just have my breasts back? I don’t even want my groove back; just my breasts, thanks. I want to be able to put my bra on and not have to place my breasts correctly in front of me.
Don’t misunderstand, parenting is rewarding, always; sometimes, irritating. If it isn’t, you’re not doing something right or you’re hallucinating. That doesn’t stop me from wanting my breasts back.