I’m 6 weeks into parenthood.
**I swore to myself this wouldn’t become a babyblog. And it won’t. But in the spirit of honoring that which is currently true………**
I’m tired. I don’t sleep “when the baby sleeps” because I’m not a baby. When he’s napping, I’m going to the bathroom, shoving food into my face, washing bottles and bibs, organizing the chaos in every room, calling and texting friends, making doctor appointments, and making promises to Bela (that things will be great again.)
I’m scared. That I am doing every damn thing wrong. That I don’t know what is right. That I’ll never matter again. That he will love me. That he won’t love me.
I’m anxious. Like, severely on edge. I keep practicing deep breathing, waiting for calm to kick in.
I’m resentful. No one’s ever asked this much of me. No one’s ever trumped my needs so blatantly.
I’m frustrated. Mostly at how frustrated he gets. It is apparent he has a temper like his mother. Did he get any of the good of me?
I’m bored. He’s darling. He’s my little darling. But he’s one thing, in a world of many. I miss the world. (I know it will come back. This hibernation stage is just that — a stage. And it is purposeful and good. And has a sweetness to it. But I miss the world.)
I’m in love. I’m so in love with him, the role he plays in my family, and my family as a whole. There are moments, in the evening…when I see his butt in the palm of Nic’s hand, when I watch Bela lick his tiny feet…and I think, Holy fuck; I am lucky. If I am honest, I don’t think it’s all luck. I think it’s God, and grit — and a string of choices I made that got me here. But it feels like luck.
It feels like MY LIFE.