You get this.
October 18, 2013 § 9 Comments
I’ve been avoiding you again.
And it’s a shame, too, because so much has happened that I want to tell you about, so much I’ve started to write.
A writer’s conference. Turning 30. Our son getting baptized. Our birth story.
I know, right?
But every time I go to sit down, to dig in, I stop.
Because I’ve looked down and noticed a whole in my shirt and peanut butter on my leg and spit-up on my arm and a new zit on my cheek and I think, “who am I kidding?”
Because I still can’t find a good nursing bra or pants that fit and I see other beautiful bloggers seemingly navigating new motherhood with lovely pictures and perfect similes and cute clothes and nauseating ease and good hair (seriously–“how does she do her hair like that?” as I feel for the unwashed blob on my head) and I know I’m not supposed to compare, but I do.
Because at over four months in, I feel like I should have it all figured out, for goodness sakes, though I don’t know where THAT idea came from. And the very fact that I don’t (oh, I SO don’t) and probably won’t for a long time takes my breath away and makes me feel very small, makes me equal parts grateful and fearful for each day I’m given and what lies ahead if I feel like I’m drowning now. And I don’t know what to say about anything.
Because I’m tired in my bones.
Because I’m always vowing to blog at night once our boy is in bed like other productive people do, but by then I’m proud if I’ve made an edible dinner and done the dishes and all I want to do is curl up with Tillamook Chocolate and Peanut Butter ice cream. To not share it or any part of me for a while, to indulge in something totally mine (and because Kenny is allergic, peanut butter has made this possible) and just watch Call the Midwife or Friday Night Lights in peace.
Because I thought pregnancy brain was bad.
Because most days, all I can think about is the fact that I don’t know why my son isn’t sleeping so I write acrostic poems like this:
Without a doubt, my
Hell on earth. But I implore you–
You must hear me out, my son.
About your sleeping habits:
Rest is good, don’t you see, for
Not just your little growing brain, but
Those around you. Namely, your parents.
Your loving folks will crack
Over time, if they don’t get shut-eye.
Up all night is not an option.
Sound machines, pacifiers, and
Loveys be damned, say you.
Endless crying or
Eyes open, alert, is just plain better.
Please. Learn to love sleep. Or else
I am going to commence a
Nicotine and drinking problem. So, for the final time, my love–
Good. Freaking. Night.
Because lately I have felt like Lucy and Ethel and the chocolates, like I’ve been choking on posts, too many of them coming too fast and pretty soon, I’m backed up and behind.
So posts remain open in my browser, saved in my drafts, and my pictures are curled up comfy on my camera card always in another room. But because I love it here and I want to write here, all the time, but sometimes I get stuck…
You get this.
Because it’s all I have.