I feel like these days are going by in a blur.
The minutes tick by into hours, the hours melt into days, and pretty soon I’m like, “Holy crap, y’all it’s Thursday!?”
And you’re like, “nooo, it’s Monday. Get your head in the game, Beckey.”
And I’m all, “Monday??”
To which you nod condescendingly, and repeat “Monday.”
Because that’s the thing about the newborn stage. It’s all blurry and my boobs are rocks, and it hurts to laugh, and should I be sweating this much?? No really, this is a lot of sweat. This can’t be normal.
I’m in the hard part right now. The part where I want to yell and whisper and then cry and laugh. The part when I get out of bed after not sleeping all night and throw a tantrum the whole way into the bathroom. Because what about me?! What about my needs? Why about my sleep? My recovery? It all gets overlooked. For now.
For now. I remind myself. This isn’t forever. It’s just for now.
He wants to eat every hour–just for now.
He cries when I don’t hold him–just for now.
He won’t sleep in the co-sleeper–just for now.
And pretty soon our now will be different. And all this will change.
But I want to remember it all. All the wild tears I’ve cried, because it hurt to fart, or the container of my pain medication was empty. I want to remember all the sleep I’m missing out on, because feeling a tiny baby is what dreams are made of. Even if they are the ones that rob you of those dreams. I want to bottle it all up so I can guzzle it down when Silas grows bigger, and starts really pissing me off. I want to bottle up all the coos and squawks he makes while he’s laying in my arms, the way his legs snap up and into his body when I change his diaper, and the elfish noise he makes when he sneezes.
It goes by so fast, and I’m not going to be making any more babies. I’m not going to be pregnant again. This is my last newborn. My baby box is closed for business. The main reason is because my uterus ripped open, and I really can’t trust an organ that is going to tear open willy nilly. The other reason is because I don’t think I can handle anymore babies. Three is good. I’m comfortably full. Like when you go to a good restaurant and you order just the right amount of food, AND THEN you order the creme brule and a decaf.
That’s how I feel.
Full, and content, with sweetness in my belly.