Here we go.

I lost the ability to vent frustration with events in my life. It results in a single word response, laden with an unspoken reprimand: “motherhood”. Not “parenthood”. It’s not an affliction that affects men and women equally. No one has responded to Rob’s tiredness, the inability to eat a meal uninterrupted with, “fatherhood”.

In general you aren’t supposed to answer questions honestly. When the checkout chick asks, “How are ya?”, you aren’t supposed to tell them how you really are. (That's why when I worked in retail, I would greet people with a smile and a, "Hi there", as I reached over the counter. I am bad at pretending to care.)
And so, when someone says to you, of motherhood, “Do you love it”, it’s not a question. It’s an instruction. You should love it. You must love it. You are a woman and your job in the world is to be a mother and enjoy motherhood. When you answer honestly, “no”, a look of silent horror is returned.
If one more person tells me to cherish this special time, I will scream. If one more person tells me that it gets easier, I will scream. If one more person gives me an unsolicited opinion, I will scream. I will scream, just as I scream into the pillow whilst I’m being screamed at by a small creature that is only able to demand my constant attention. Who is hungry, but will not eat. Who is tired, but will not sleep.
Forget that I used to have hobbies and interests. A job that was challenging and rewarding, and framed me as an intelligent individual with actual skills beyond the production of milk and the changing of nappies. The washing of laundry. The cooking of food. The housework. The appointments. The plans. I have become a housekeeper, a nanny, a wet nurse, on top of being the PA and the travel agent.

No, I am now a mumma bear, and my former self no longer matters.