So I’m a newish mom. Writing another mommy blog. And I get it, there are a million of them out there talking about mommyhood, good, bad, and ugly. I was feeling really motivated, really excited to start this thing, and then I started down the internet rabbit hole and realized the market is completely and totally saturated. Here’s what the world decidedly does not need: another mother on the internet, talking about feelings and love and puke and milestones and BPA and homemade sweet potato puree and ideal nap schedules. But I’m going to do it anyway, and here’s why: I got so much loving (solicited) advice, so much genuine support when I was going through the darkest of times, that I want to pass it on.
The only way I can pay this debt to the universe is by helping someone else who suddenly finds herself lost and afraid and overwhelmed and covered in spit-up. A girl who used to be AWESOME–at karaoke, at tequila shots, at shutting down cocky boys– who is now trapped under the weight of a baby she KNOWS she is supposed to think is the most perfect creation on the earth, every second, and realizing that sometimes she doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes she feels stupid and incompetent and angry. A lot of the time she feels exhausted and resentful and regretful of the decision to do this thing that seemed like such a good idea in the beginning.
I am a hot ass mess most of the time. I am so tired, all the time. I am flying blind, mostly, on how to do this thing, in spite of a massive support system. Some days I feel like I’ve maybe got the hang of it. Other days, I’m a failure and I know it, although I’m in the process of learning to shake those days off and start again tomorrow. Every day is another chance to have perfectly timed-out naps, tear-free bedtimes, sunshine and fresh air, and regular baby bowel movements. Another day to remember the sunscreen and the vitamins, the socks and the hat, and to pull the fork/electrical cord/Zoloft bottle out of reach just in the nick of time. Those days don’t happen very often, but they happen. I am doing my best, every day, and some days my best is straight up crap.
N just said “mama” for the first time, and I’ve listened to the recording at least twelve thousand times. His skin is impossibly soft, his fingers impossibly fat, and I can NOT hear him laugh without laughing myself. This is by far the hardest thing I have ever done, and I have a LOT of help. It is terrifying, many times a day. But dude, I made a person. He’s made it almost eleven months, and he thinks I’m the shit. No one has ever been as happy to see me as he is. He strokes my face and my hand and my arm while he nurses. He squeals and puts his wide-open mouth on my face, covering me with baby spit to show me how rad he thinks I am. He loves me, in spite of myself, and I think we’re all going to be ok.