He's going to be 4 weeks old this week. How did this happen?
As I sit here sipping my coffee listening to some classical music on Pandora (how did the soundtrack from "How to Train Your Dragon" get on this station, anyway?), I just finished another practice exam for my boards. Jack is peacefully sleeping on the couch beside me and Cooper on the loveseat, Riley under the coffee table awaiting his daily terrorization attempt of the mailman. There's a light snow falling outside and the trees are being whisped around in the cold winter wind. It's quiet. Very quiet. As a new mom, you'd think I'd appreciate the silence. It's not like I'll get much of it in the years to come, so soak it up now, right?
But the silence is too loud, really. I could use a little giggle or snort or fart or something. Anything. He's going to be 4 weeks old on Friday. Why does he have to be 4 weeks already?
The past four weeks have been one big whirlwind, I'll put it that way. Getting this "mom" thing down is exhausting. For every time you feel like you got it right, you feel like a failure five more times. Soon after we brought Jack home, I surrendered myself to imperfection and decided it's no use. I did all the research, had every little gizmo and gadget waiting for me. I was going to nip those screaming fits and blowout diapers right in the butt! (no pun intended). Alas, it is no use. The nights will be long and those baby tears will make your own heart want to cry. Lesson learned: you're going to feel like you suck at this no matter how much you prepare. But it'll be ok. In fact, it will be wonderful.
I love being a mom. I love having a little ball of cuddly happiness to snuggle with as I study. It's hard, though. The nights when he's gassy as all heck, and I can't do anything but fill him with those darn gas drops and bicycle-kick his legs until the sun comes up. The mornings I wake up and my boobs decided to turn into a sprinkler system after his last feeding and soaked right through the nursing pads and onto the bedsheets. The days when he's screaming his lungs out, his mid-diaper-change bare butt aimed in every which direction and I realize I left the clean diapers in the basement again. Or those moments when he just fell asleep, and I have to pee like a racehorse: to put him down and risk the wrath of un-cuddled Jackson, or just keep rocking and risk a bladder explosion.
They're right, it's hard.
But it's a good hard. It's the little things that keep you going, and thank goodness, they come in ample supply. When you finally figure out that "Ehhh ehhh ehhh" cry means his tummy hurts, the "Aerghhh" cry means he's gotta fart again, the lip quiver or ear tug means he's hungry. When you figure out he's fussy and fidgety as all heck because his diaper's wet, and you change it, and all is right with the world again. Or when his bottom starts to get pink and splotchy, and you, being the all-knowing (common sense) parent you are, recognize this is the early stage of diaper rash and slap some coconut oil on that booty and kick that rash right in the butt (again, no pun intended). Or the best part: the first time he smiles at you, and it's not because he farted. Those are the little victories when you think to yourself, "Hey, this isn't so bad. Maybe I won't kill myself today." Those are the moments that make everything worth it, and remind you you're going to be ok. I feel incredibly blessed to say that as time goes on, Mike and I have gotten to see more and more little victories, and fewer and fewer moments of utter chaos. Life is exactly as it should be, and I wouldn't trade this for the world.
I love being a mom. I love having a little ball of cuddly happiness to snuggle with as I study. It's hard, though. The nights when he's gassy as all heck, and I can't do anything but fill him with those darn gas drops and bicycle-kick his legs until the sun comes up. The mornings I wake up and my boobs decided to turn into a sprinkler system after his last feeding and soaked right through the nursing pads and onto the bedsheets. The days when he's screaming his lungs out, his mid-diaper-change bare butt aimed in every which direction and I realize I left the clean diapers in the basement again. Or those moments when he just fell asleep, and I have to pee like a racehorse: to put him down and risk the wrath of un-cuddled Jackson, or just keep rocking and risk a bladder explosion.
They're right, it's hard.
But it's a good hard. It's the little things that keep you going, and thank goodness, they come in ample supply. When you finally figure out that "Ehhh ehhh ehhh" cry means his tummy hurts, the "Aerghhh" cry means he's gotta fart again, the lip quiver or ear tug means he's hungry. When you figure out he's fussy and fidgety as all heck because his diaper's wet, and you change it, and all is right with the world again. Or when his bottom starts to get pink and splotchy, and you, being the all-knowing (common sense) parent you are, recognize this is the early stage of diaper rash and slap some coconut oil on that booty and kick that rash right in the butt (again, no pun intended). Or the best part: the first time he smiles at you, and it's not because he farted. Those are the little victories when you think to yourself, "Hey, this isn't so bad. Maybe I won't kill myself today." Those are the moments that make everything worth it, and remind you you're going to be ok. I feel incredibly blessed to say that as time goes on, Mike and I have gotten to see more and more little victories, and fewer and fewer moments of utter chaos. Life is exactly as it should be, and I wouldn't trade this for the world.
