Real talk. Some days are really freaking hard. Whenever I thought about having kids one day I knew on some mild level that it would be a life-changing experience, but nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for what exactly that meant.
Most of the time I can look at her stupid little face and be completely smitten and in awe of what hubs and I created—this perfect, squishy, drooly, cooing miracle that somehow grew in my belly out of a single cell.
But then there are other times. Times when I don’t recognize myself or my body or my life. Times when I wake up in the middle of the night because my poor milk-swollen boobs hurt, times when I don’t fit comfortably in anything, times when I want to go to the store but she decides she needs a nap, times when I want to snuggle my husband but she’s hungry, times when I am so desperately exhausted but decide not to sleep when she does because I know that’s the only time in my day when I can get anything else accomplished, times when my ears are ringing because they’re being screamed in for the tenth time that day and there’s nothing that’s appeasing her in that moment, times when I’m up at 1am or 4am trying to get a fighting babe back to sleep, times when I’m talking to her and wishing I could just be understood but knowing I’m essentially trying to communicate with a cat…
Some of it sounds so petty written out, but when all of those moments are stacked on top of one another day after day after day after day, and I look at my life and realize I have become a single-cow dairy farm with a miniature life form superglued to my hip, well, those days are hard.
And don’t get me wrong, I love our little girl more than I ever knew I could ever love anything or anyone. She melts me, completely, and nothing could every change that.
But there’s a period of mourning that I’m going through right now for my old life and my old self, and I didn’t plan on that. I didn’t know it would hit me this hard, and that I would have tears rolling down my cheeks while I rocked her to sleep, and that I would walk into the kitchen after placing her into her swing and go up to my husband and just start sobbing. I didn’t know that I would have moments of resentment when hubs could go to work or go for a run and get a break from her. I didn’t know that I would get so frustrated when it took me two weeks to actually get around to painting my toenails, or when it took three days to do laundry because I kept having to dewrinkle the same load over and over again. If it weren’t for one very honest girlfriend (you know who you are), I would’ve also been fully unprepared for how taxing breastfeeding is, and even with her warning it came as a huge shock to see just how consuming it can be.
I’m not saying any of this for pity or reassuring pats on the head. I’m saying it because I felt so overwhelmed today and needed to write. I’m saying it because I’m betting someone can relate, maybe someone even needs to know they’re not alone. But mostly I’m saying it because it’s my truth, and truth doesn’t always have to be butterflies and roses, yo.