I love being a mom. It might sound cliche but it is easily my most favorite and best job in the world. From the morning giggles and little afternoon snuggles, and the tiny hand pats as she nurses herself to sleep at night. I can also assure you it’s not all sunshine and daisies.
Even when it gets “tough” I do my best to be thankful that I even have a little human to love- too many of my friends have lost and had the opportunity to be woken up 5 times a night taken from them. Some have waited weeks, waiting for their Little’s to be well enough to leave NICU to have them home. I know my happy, healthy, sweet, baby is the biggest of blessings.
Yesterday, I struggled. She’s been waking up more at night to eat again, which rolled into an already tired mommy for the day. Constant eating and fussing compiled. Ethan was supposed to be done at 5 and running to the store after. I was counting the minutes.
Those minutes turned into nearly 4hrs (yay overtime!). I was the epitome of gross- my clothes didn’t match, my sweatshirt most definitely had some sort of puke/drool mix on the shoulder, I’m fairly certain I forgot deodorant (ironic since yesterday’s post was deodorant), and my hair was some sort of knot. I usually manage 20 minutes to shower baby-free while she hangs with daddy before bed. But daddy wasn’t home so she screamed.
We’re going through a minor bout of boobie biased- so we screamed some more. She finally ate. I got her to sleep. I placed her in her crib and grabbed a drink downstairs. As I threw the blankets back and began to crawl into bed, the dreaded sound of a rising cry came from across the hall. I dropped my head in exhausted defeat.
Usually I can pick her up and “shhh” her back fairly quickly. Instead she puked on me and her. She was WIDE awake. Smiling, laughing, and happily gnawing her hand. I changed my bra that had filled with said puke and went back to try again. She proceeded to puke again. All over herself, and on my shirt.
I changed her jammies for what was the third time, and pulled my own shirt over my head. I managed to get her to latch on her least favorite side, and realized I hadn’t turned the warming pad in her crib on or the white noise. I balanced my child while getting her habitat ready for bed and sat back down.
And then I cried.
I’m fortunate I didn’t really have baby blues. I had as easy a recovery from birth as you could imagine. But after 3 months and 3 days, I hit the wall. I’m not one for tears- I have a running joke, “We don’t do that here.” Partially because I’m a sympathetic cryer, partially because I’m one of those people that feels ALL the feels, and thus avoids them.
I looked at my tiny human, finally dozing, so precious as she hugged my bosom, snuggling in under her fuzzy blankie. Being a mom is tough. Being a breastfeeding mom is hard. Being the singular care taker (Ethan is amazing but he’s lacking some key body parts), is a lot. Being on call 24/7 is daunting. Trying to be all things to all people is impossible. I’ve tried.
Sometimes the emotions, good and bad collide- and when that happens, it’s ok to cry.