the end of the world as we know it

I didn't get the memo that having children means the end of your life. And if I had, I wouldn't have signed up as readily. I knew it would mean adjustments, maybe even radical ones initially. But surely the goal is to rejoin a figment of your previous self eventually.
Mommy Dearest or bust hadn't occurred to me.
And of course how your spouse will react to parenting is anyone's guess. You might have an idea, but you never really know if all of those early promises and wishes one has while the child is in the uterus will carry forward, or fall by the wayside faster than you can say "golf" or "boys weekend".
What I initially strutted about like a peacock pronouncing at baby groups, when the other groggy eyed mothers would complain about their husbands barely lifting a finger to care for their newborns, was "Turns out my husband is a passionate father! He is completely engaged whenever at home with caring for the baby. Not only that, he calls ten times a day to make sure everything is running smoothly in his absence!" I noted the raised eyebrows, but sloughed it off as jealousy.
Who knew the flip side of caring too little is caring too much?
When the children were babies, and I was always in a sleep deprived state, our lives worked well. He decided when and where and what we were doing, for the most part, since getting through the day, wherever that may be, was my motive. And he was as in tune, if not more so, with their schedules than I, so everything revolved around naps and bottles and diapers and baby food. We seldom went out just the two of us, which was fine: I was usually too tired anyway.
But I have finally woken up, and pried my youngest child's arms from around my neck, only to find myself even more shackled than when they were babies.
Our lives revolve around our children more than ever: we have morphed into a solar system where they are the sun, and we, the helpless planets, stuck in orbit. We revolve around soccer games, gymnastic competitions, and sleep overs. We never go near anything that they reject: skiing, hiking, hanging with people who may not have children their congruent ages or at all, babysitters, Indian food, strolling through farmer's markets.
Of course, it is the path of least resistance to follow their whims and desires, to a certain degree. But husband and I disagree on the extent of this, which gets us into no end of trouble.
He used to want to reject dinner invitations if one of our children didn't have a playmate of similar age. When friends invited us to their ski cabins he would promise our children he would ski with them all weekend, thereby ruining the "moms ski one day, dads ski the other" arrangements made by the adults. The children don't like babysitters generally, so we rarely go out. I could go on and on, but it both alarms and saddens me so I'll stop.
At the end of the day, he is happy to be a puppet to our children, has gladly forfeited any sense of who he was before children in lieu of fatherhood.
But me, I want it all: I want to love both my children, and myself minus the mother in me.