You don’t know what the story is about when you’re in the middle of it. You think you do, but you don’t. You make up all kinds of possible story lines: this is about growing up. Or this is about living without fear. You can guess all you want, but you don’t know. All you can do is keep walking. ~ Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet
The house is quiet.
It hasn’t been quiet for six weeks.
Six weeks since my beautiful second babe arrived earthside. On my birthday, actually, a fact everyone finds beyond adorable. I say that until you’ve spent your birthday in labour, hold back on the opinions.
I’m not one to romanticize the newborn stage. People make it out to be all teensy diapers and baby head smelling and tastefully draped post-partum clothing (Thanks Kate Middleton). The baby is lovely, don’t get me wrong. But this stage is not. It’s all no showers and horrifyingly sore body parts and wanting to give up about three-hundred-and-fifty-million times a day
They couldn’t get my little marshmallow to cry at first, something he has spent the last six weeks clearly making up for. I’ve bounced and swung and sang everything from Hillsong to The Beatles. I swear I can make out a worn groove around the island in my kitchen, where I’ve walked my babe at all starless hours of the night. In some cruel twist of maternal hardwiring, moments after he miraculously drifts off I’m back hanging over his crib. You know, to make sure he’s still alive. *sigh*
Not only that, but in a bizarre manifestation of my exhaustion I’m constantly picking fights with my husband. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. I actually alternate the fighting with spontaneous bouts of sobbing. I’m as dependent on my mother as newborn chick, all peeping and skittish. And I’ve realized I have no idea how to parent my toddler and keep this new babe thriving. Thankfully, Netflix seems to have that one covered.
Image credit: Tatiana Vdb