Six months ago today I became a mom. I remember when I was visibly very pregnant, it seemed that at least once a week I would have someone say something negative to me about having children. Typically they were strangers, which is just weird. Not to mention the endless amount of blogs that outline every bad thing ever in all of the history of children that people feel the need to “warn” expecting moms about. I was probably 36 weeks when I decided to stop reading, stop listening, and develop my own opinion of what motherhood felt like for ME. So here’s my version of motherhood.
My morning routine has been pretty much the same for about 2 months. I wake up to either crying noises, or the hilarious and steady, monotone “ahhhhhh” coming over my baby monitor. I get up, push the brew button on my coffee maker and pick up my little babe. Lately I’ve been sitting on my back porch, you know, to be all peaceful and stuff until my dogs start barking at the neighbor dog friends. So this morning was the same. Except when I sat down I somehow managed to spill my entire cup of coffee all over my bare thigh, and on Finn’s feet. Mom of the year. I jumped up and raced for his nursery, so I could throw him on the changing table, rip off his clothes, and see the 9th degree burns I inflicted on my own son. My husband happened to be walking through the house. He was confused, and I had no words. So I proceeded to rip off Finn’s onesie while Colt chased me into the nursery. I grabbed Finn’s feet, not red. Looked at his face, no tears, just raised brows. Ok, so no burns, maybe I really am mom of the year. My saint of a husband made me a new cup of coffee and I sat down in the recliner to start my day over. We were off to a great re-start when Finn kicked my coffee cup and it spilled again. We escaped even worse burns this time, I’m sure of it; only now I’m just focused on the fact that I could totally justify buying that over-priced ceramic coffee mug with a lid I saw at Target last week. Colt left for the day, and I decided to make breakfast and start my day over, again. For whatever reason the one speckle of last night’s supper that wasn’t washed off the burner, caused the smoke alarm to start blaring. I waved a burp rag at it for 30 seconds before I decided to just relocate to my bedroom and wait it out. We waited….dogs and Finn all staring at me expecting me to do something like I’m in charge. The whole time I’m wondering why the heck this thing is going off…when a week prior, my entire house almost burnt to the ground and it never made a peep. I’d put some sweet potatoes on to boil for baby food, then decided I should sit outside for the next hour. I started wondering which neighbor was barbecuing before it finally hit me that it was me. The potatoes were black, the pot was ruined, and my house was basically in flames. My smoke alarm was silent. But not today, my smoke alarm was very not silent. I finally decided to just take the stupid thing out of the ceiling mostly out of fear I was causing my child to go deaf. And there our day began.
All of that, and the only things that people wanted to warn me about was the fact that I would never wash my hair again, or sleep again, or have any sense of freedom. No one told me to unplug all the smoke alarms. Well I do wash my hair, with dry shampoo. I do not sleep, and I also do not care. I’ve simply adjusted. I don’t have the freedom to revolve around myself anymore, but I’ve found that there’s really not much freedom in that anyways.
So my take on motherhood: I’m the same dysfunctional woman I’ve always been, only happier, and with a super precious side-kick that laughs at me for no reason, gives the best slobbery kisses, and makes every day an adventure.