Monday snippets


I’ve been having a rough time lately. I’ve found a bit of solace in fervently punching in whatever comes to mind onto my phone, glancing over my shoulder in fear my husband will read what’s on the screen. And yet, I have this urge to share,  because I’ve made it my own personal mission to share the ugly side of parenthood, the ugly side of being a new mother. This is what’s come up in recent nights…

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As I type this, my son is falling asleep next to me. His arm is draped to his side, resting on me for comfort.

It’s beautiful.

And yet… I wish today never happened. Today was anything but beautiful. Today was the opposite of beautiful. Today was ugly. Today was one of my bad days.

I’m just so ready to be done with the bad days, to be done with the terrible, awful, no good, very bad thoughts I’m ashamed to admit I have. (Thoughts like, “I can’t wait to leave town sans husband and child for three days. Think of all the sleep I’ll be able to get!”)

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Sometimes I think I’m not cut out to be a mother. Not a good one, anyway. I’m fairly certain that’s not the postpartum talking, either… And I’m pretty good at recognizing postpartum in myself these days.

I don’t have patience. I’ve heard countless people say countless times that “it’s different with your own kids” but in the situations I’m referring to, it’s not any different. I have no patience. I get mad at my son for crying when there’s nothing wrong. I get frustrated when he fights sleep, because IF HE’S SO TIRED WHY DOESN’T HE JUST GO TO SLEEP ALREADY. I, a grown ass woman, get mad at my son, a 7-month-old.

It’s stupid.

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I deleted a line at the end of that last one. It’s too terrible to share, too terrible to re-read. I can’t – won’t – go there.

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I’ve realized lately that I share a lot of the ugly stuff on here… and not so much of the beautiful side of parenthood, the beautiful side of being a new mama. Which is sad, really, because there is beauty and wonder and awe. It’s truly amazing, in those moments when I can see past the crap.

There are moments of this…

“Mom? Mom?! MOMMY?!?”

And this…

Pirate party.

And this.

Peas.

And, though I know postpartum is real and a real bitch, there are times when I also know I just need to get the fuck over it and enjoy my son, because damn it, he’s only going to be seven months old for so long.

Speaking of seven months… here E is at six months:

“Heyyyyyyyyyyy.”

And that, my friends, is what I need to focus on. Because I barely remember him at 6-7 months. Tomorrow he is seven months old, and I refuse to let his eighth month slip by.