Today is the first day in about eleven that the babe hasn't woken up ten times in the night choking on congestion, snot streaming from his nose in two little rivulets, crying because his mouth hurts more than anything else in the whole world.
Today I got up at six fifteen instead of five in the morning.
I made coffee, I made banana waffles and the babe ate them happily instead of taking a few bites and then getting frustrated because eating when you are snotting that much is really no fun.
I got pooped on.
Yup.
Smelled that smelly smell that indicated it was time to change the diaper, and when I picked him up, the diaper exploded like a loaded pinata, except in this case instead of candy it was...NOT CANDY.
And you know what?
I laughed it off.
It's amazing what a full night's sleep will do for you.
Last week, everything felt like the end of the world.
Between the two of us, the snotting, the screaming, the crying, the inability to console the babe or to tell him that it was going to be okay and molars are total bitches, and every day being about forty degrees and pouring rain I began to lose my grip on reality.
I probably cried every single day last week.
Which isn't to say I didn't try my best.
(hello double negatives how are you?)
I did.
I really did.
I made waffles last week too.
I paid bills, went for walks in the rain, took the babe to the library to run off steam, and tried really hard to make the best of things.
But by about three o clock in the afternoon, every day, I'd have had it.
The babe would be so tired and ready for his long afternoon nap, but he would also be so uncomfortable that he couldn't settle down, and I would be holding him, rocking him, nursing him, singing to him, on three hours of sleep myself, feeling terribly guilty that I wanted him to go to sleep just so I could get a break, feeling so frustrated that I couldn't explain that his discomfort would not last forever, and then secretly wondering if, in fact, it did last forever, how long before I killed myself?
Finally something small would push me over the edge, I'd nag my toe, the babe would head butt me so hard I saw stars, or I'd just not be able to take anymore screaming, and I'd put him down in the pack and play and leave the room, sit on the toilet, and cry my heart out.
Nobody tells you that it's okay to do this.
I will tell you.
It is okay to do this.
Your kid won't die just from being left alone in a safe place (crib, pack and play, carseat, etc) while you have a little breakdown. They might cry. They might scream bloody murder because you aren't paying them attention, but they are okay. I promise.
And you need this.
You need to just have a minute to yourself to feel your feelings because so much of our lives as mothers we push our needs to the side. We drink the coffee cold. We eat the leftovers. We take the 90 second shower and we don't wash our hair. We give our ice cream because their fell on the ground. We spend the afternoon fixing everything because if we didn't, the world would surely end.
So we get to take those minutes to cry.
We get to take those minutes to call our own moms and say "I don't know how you did this?"
We get to give the babies to the Daddies when they get home and say, "I'm going for a walk, by myself. I'll be back in forty minutes."
It doesn't make us shitty.
It makes us better mothers.
Mothers Day brunches are fine if you're into that sort of thing. Flowers are nice, and of course all the hugs and kisses and homemade cards are priceless, but we should give ourselves the gift of feeling our emotions, safely, and securely without guilt EVERY DAMN DAY.
Yesterday, I got chocolate. I got to go out with a friend for a cocktail. I got kisses and hugs, and I felt loved and appreciated, but it was this morning when I woke up to a non-screaming, smiling kid who clapped his little hands when i put a waffle down in front of him, that was my gift.
It was reassurance that the hard times really don't last forever, and whatever you have to do to survive them is okay.
As long as everybody is fed, cleaned up, and safely in bed at the end of the night, it does not matter what you had to do to accomplish that, and you should never feel ashamed if part of getting things done, meant screaming into a pillow while your kid sat safely in his high chair gnawing on a wooden spoon.
Today, I showered poop off myself and shrugged it off.
I never thought I'd say this but I'll take a happy kid who ruins my outfit over a sobbing kid any day.
And that's how I know I am getting better at this motherhood thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment