This is some more real life right here. She’s napping and I’m pumping. Double pumping. Hands-free (Yay?!) with the pumping bra. Look at those tummy rolls. No makeup. Bed hair. That’s right, I woke up like this. So, so sexy. I know you’re jealous.
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AmberEllenW
Well, the butt is significantly better. Whoo-hoo. Though, in truth, it’s still pretty awful - the Miralax, the Fibercon, the pain relievers, the post-poop cream, the weekly pelvic floor therapy appointments. Again, I feel super, super sexy. Not.
But, the pain is in the 1-3 range, versus the 7-9 range like it was, so I get to be a present mom these days … and that’s so, so good. And what does that look like?
Two-stepping to Jake Owen’s “Down to the Honkeytonk” around the living room couch in the mornings.
Responding excitedly to her baby babble like I understand what she’s saying.
Aerobic booty dancing to Major Lazer while she watches entranced from her back on the floor.
Reading peek-a-boo books in the glider before bed.
Going for walks around the neighborhood the second it cools off even a little bit.
Singing Chris Stapleton’s “Millionaire” to her while she leans back on my knees.
Handing her Lphant, reindeer rattle, paci, or spoon each and every time she drops them.
Helping her push Grissom’s kisses away when they get too intense.
Playing with her in the pool.
Rubbing her back and humming “Rock-A-By-Baby” to her when she wakes up restless (but still sleepy) from a nap.
Walking in to get her up at 7 am, my “Good Morning, Baby Girl” met with eye contact and bright smiles as she pushes up from her chest.
Cleaning all her little parts while she kicks and splashes and coos in her baby bathtub.
Hands-free pumping while I spin and shake and hum along with her toys for her as she lays on her back and watches and grabs and chatters on about something.
Crying happy and grateful tears while I sing her Bruno Mars’ “Just the Way You Are” and Dierks Bentley’s “Living.”
I just love her. All of her. Her big blue eyes, her eager hands, her interest and alertness, her coos, her cries, her baby bird hair, the dimple on her cheek … even her smelly feet. She’s a blessing I didn’t even know why or how much I wanted or needed. I am grateful.
Love.
It’s all still hard, but it’s getting better. Whether that is because of the human ability to adapt to new circumstances or because it’s legitimately slightly easier two weeks in than it was at a week and a half in, I can’t honestly say .... but it’s a tad bit better.
And she’s still adorable. And warm. And squishy. And when she falls asleep on me, immediately after nursing? There’s very little in the world that feels better.
But she’s been air-side for TWO WEEKS. It feels so much longer and like it’s flown by at the same time. If this is any indication of how fast time will move through her childhood, I’m terrified and sad ... I don’t want to miss it. I want to cherish it. I want to be transformed by the pure joy of it. She’s precious and I never want to lose sight of that ... in fact, I want it to be so real for me that I can’t help but transfer that truth to her ... that she’ll believe it about herself and act and feel accordingly.
I’ve spent a lot of time holding her and praying over her this past week - for her protection and health and wisdom and salvation and sanctification and innocence and confidence and mental health and relationships ... and I just get the sense that God and I are going to be talking a lot more simply because she exists.
That’s not a bad by-product of these hard and sacred times.
Love.
UPDATE: It’s a few hours later and I’m on the edge again. A little resentful, a lot lonely, a whole lot more insecure - about my mothering, my instincts, my future ... and it’s feeling really heavy again right now. I’m tired with no good sleep in sight. I can’t poop or sit comfortably like I could just two weeks ago ... and it’s crazy how body discomfort can really mess with a mind (see previous post at 37 weeks, ha).
So there’s that real life.
Love.
It’s my due date, and I already have an almost two week old baby girl.
I’m celebrating by changing a dozen diapers, offering up my boobs every couple of hours, trying half a dozen techniques to calm crying (with little, to no, success), and sitting and standing with an excessive amount of caution due to tears in the lady parts.
This ish is hard. Harder than I could have expected. Harder than I wanted. Harder than I would have signed up for. We’ve walked into a very harsh reality. One that is self-doubt inducing, emotionally overwhelming, relationally challenging, and worldview confounding.
In these first days as a family of three, I’ve marveled at her every feature, took thousands of pictures, cuddled her close and posted my pride on social media. But, in and out of those days, I’ve also had what one mom friend called “buyer’s remorse.” I’ve wondered out loud, “what have we done?,” and “what if I’m not wired for this ... what if I forced His hand and she’s going to pay the price for what I lack?” I’ve felt my blood pressure rise, my survival instinct flair up, at a hint of a whimper. I’ve worked hard at breathing deeply when she’s at my breast, hoping against hope that somehow I can spare her reading (and transferring) anxiety from her caregiver. I’ve struggled, tears streaming down my face, just wanting to hear my husband say all these feelings are normal and that I am a good mother, that, somehow, he’s seen me show up and impress him with my maternal instincts. And I’ve cried more, alone on the corner of the couch, when he’s remained silent.
This is hard. She’s beautiful and precious. And I can’t help feeling like she deserves better than I’m giving her. And that’s all I’ve got right now.
Love.
Well, nothing about this is enjoyable.
I feel disgusting. My thighs are - not kidding - double their normal size. I’ve got a double chin developing. I’ve gained 50 pounds. 5-0. These boobs I paid for? No longer sexy. My ankles and feet and hands are swollen. The extra weight has turned into plantar fasciitis pain in BOTH feet. The belly (and she who dwells/moves within) has turned into very regular and painfully acute back pain - especially while sitting or laying down. The influx of hormones equates to sweat-soaked tossing and turning throughout the night, EVERY night. There’s the bruised ribs, from her stretching ... and the pain in my pelvic area EVERY time I stand up. And the itchy, stretching skin? Yea, that just started. And sometimes when I walk? Feels like I just tore my hip out of joint.
I can’t paint my toenails. Or bend down. Or help do ANYTHING.
In my discomfort, I’m grouchy and on edge. I legitimately have a new-found compassion and understanding for chronic pain patients. I will never judge your opioid addiction or grouchiness again. Not being able to be and or do what is desired, when it’s desired and how it’s desired is its own kind of hell.
Hell.
Now, I know I’m supposed to preface or back-end this complaint with commentary on how it will all be worth it - that the temporary struggle pales in comparison to the joy having a child will bring - but I don’t do platitudes. I also don’t speak from inexperience.
So, all I can say is that I hope I like her. I truly hope I have some astonishing measure of magical connection/attachment to this being I helped create. Right now, I’m just marveling (with slight disgust and an ounce of disdain) at my audacity in thinking I had any right or wisdom enough to embark on plotting for parenthood. Foolish human.
I hope she comes soon. I hope she doesn’t. I’m scared of when she does. I’m eager to find out how it plays out. I want a known in all this unknown. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to be pregnant anymore. I’m worried about what life looks like when we’re permanently three instead of two. I’m a bigger dichotomy then I’ve ever been and it’s driving me a little bit crazy. The hormones are not helping.
Relaxin sucks. Ironically.
And that’s all I’ve got for this Mother’s Day morning. Thanks for letting me be real.
Love.