This tiny pink book has been the lifesaver to my journal efforts. The small entry blocks save me from feeling daunted by a huge empty book and also encourage me to choose my words carefully. I have to ruminate back on my day and prioritize what I want to record.
A few days ago, I scrawled a comment that hasn't left my brain and I thought I'd share here.
I won't quote directly (mostly cuz it's in the other room by my bed and I wanna blast this post out before baby wakes), but the general idea was my gratitude to Motherhood and it's effect on my psychological well-being. Granted, it's left me a bit of a mess as well, but if parenthood has given me anything, it's a blessedly blase attitude about others' opinions.
Side-eye at the store for the stained sweats and third-or-fourth-day hair? Meh.
Formula fed? Really? Yup. Really.
Dirty dishes in the sink? Laundry piled up? Sticky floors? Avert thine eyes, cuz that's what I'm doing.
Don't get me wrong, I still think about it and remind myself, "Ah, gotta do that!" Blips of guilt flit through my mind when I see someone doing a seemingly "better" job than me. But no longer are the days where I cry in the shower because of some supermom's instagram post with the homemade cake and DIY laundry detergent and flawsome hair and pristine clothes and cute cozy home #straightouttapinterest. And honestly it's because I'm crying in the shower from being unable to help my baby instead. If I can't find a minute to feed myself, I'm certainly not setting aside any minutes to compare myself and dwell on it. Ain't nobody got time for that.
Because the honest to goodness truth is that I'm doing the very best that I can.
Motherhood has been so different than what I expected. I thought I would be overcome with this glowing, bubbly, shiny kind of love that just burst from every cell and I wouldn't be able to contain it. I thought I would be one of those mothers with the rainbow unicorn instagram captions.
But I literally cannot find the words to describe the love I feel for this kid.
It's hard.
It's so very, very hard.
Being a parent is, truthfully, pretty sucky.
We brought our little potato spud home and I didn't feel glowy. I didn't feel like a little burning sun of love and happiness. I felt tired, and worn to the core, and a little like I made a mistake. Glimmering moments of true joy saved me, and it's only recently that I'm finally feeling like perhaps maybe me and this munch-nugget can actually be buds.
I didn't recognize the love. When compared with the ideals I had gleaned from the comments of others, it seemed that I had a missing piece. But there's no question that I love him. I would not hesitate to put his life before mine. Fixing his hurt and being the cause of his smiles or breathy giggles feeds my very soul. My struggle has been more with finding out who I am as a mother and what changes it has wrought in me rather than loving him or not.
I don't have a solid reason for sharing this. And I don't have time to care about whether or not you'll enjoy it or think it's crap. My "care" meter is maxed out from being preoccupied by the cutest, snuggiest, loviest love-bug in my life. #sorrynotsorry
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