Becoming a mother has been better than I could have ever imagined. The love I have for this little boy is beyond indescribable. I love everything about him. I laugh at his silly faces and weird sounds. I literally sit and stare at him for hours on end, simply in awe of the fact that I grew this perfect person.
But, honestly, I think that’s the boring shit that no one wants to hear about. Because, duh, everyone loves their own child.
I know I want to hear the stories and experiences women seem to keep to themselves; the not-so-pretty ones. The real-life ones. The ones that prove we’re not superhuman.
The ones like yesterday morning, when I found myself walking around my house singing made up songs about poop and crying babies, checking Jack’s diaper, holding him in every way imaginable, putting him in his rocker – then his swing – then laying him on his back – then his stomach (praying, Please, God, will this one work?) with no avail.
After 45 minutes of Jack screaming for no apparent reason (you know, other than being a two-week old baby…) I curled myself up in a tiny chair, on the verge of tears, and snuggled him close and tight to my chest. Then it happened: silence.
It was 7:02 am.
And I took to Instagram.
I haven’t finished it because it seems like I’m writing a novel, and I can’t figure out what’s TMI and what’s not. I haven’t finished it because I’m sleeping in 3 – 4 hour increments, broken up by 40 minutes of breastfeeding and burping and lulling back to sleep, and I’m absolutely exhausted.
I haven’t finished that birth story because it makes me cry. Actually, lots of things make me cry. Not because I’m actually sad or miserable or depressed, but because yeah, some moments I do feel sad or miserable or depressed.
I haven’t finished that post because I haven’t had two minutes to sit down since Cory went back to work a week and a half ago. I haven’t finished it because I’m recovering from that emergency c-section and I’m in pain. But, being in pain doesn’t matter when you have a little baby crying and all you want to do is fix it.
And lastly, I haven’t finished that post because I’m trying like mad to figure this first-time-parent thing out. No one tells you, New Mom, that the beginning is tough. It’s a beautiful, wonderful, blessed toughness, but I’d be lying if I said that in-the-moment when you’re covered in spit up, baby tears, your own tears, and you haven’t slept in what feels like 800 years, it doesn’t feel anything but tough as hell.
But before you know it, the moment of madness turns into a beautiful, cooing baby and you simply cannot imagine your life any other way.