a year ago
“Being a mother isn’t a job. Its who someone is.”
-Shonda Rhimes, Year of Yes: How to Dance it out, Stand in the Sun and Be Your Own Person
I’ve been AJ’s mother for fourteen weeks now. From the moment we brought him home and had a last minute conference with our nurse on how to actually put him safely in the infant carrier, my life has been all about logistics.
Back then, I thought the hardest thing to learn was how to safely place a car seat in the backseat of any car. Turns out, that’s the easiest part.
Carrying a stroller up/down multiple flights of steps because of the lack of elevators, while imagining yourself tripping down the steps is more difficult. Calming a screaming baby in a car seat while stuck in traffic in the back of an Uber is still terrifying.
If you know me, you know I don’t like to complain. I like to make snarky comments instead because making people laugh at my pain is my thing. If you’re not laughing, you’re crying and no one has time for that.
For fourteen weeks, it has been about us. Getting us out of the house and to our destination in one piece. Getting us enough sleep. And by us, I mean him.
Coming to the realization that baby stuff has overrun our home. I used to put his play mat away every night until I finally said Eff that. He’s here now, no use hiding the evidence.
It’s no longer about me, myself, and I.
The majority of the time, I am okay with that. I love being his mom and wrangling a stroller around is small potatoes to having the coolest baby in the world.
But there are days when I want it to be about just me. Like it used to be.
When the question, “When are you free?”, didn’t require a mental run-through of nursing and bedtimes. Didn’t require me to consider if the both us plus the shitload of stuff I have to lug around can fit into that cute café. When I used to be on time for things instead of rushing because I forgot (insert everything) and had to run back home.
Just me. Just me taking a shower without hearing imaginary (and sometimes real) baby cries in the distance. Picking an outfit because it’s what I want to wear and not just for quick access to my boobs.
The hardest thing about being a mother is not losing who you used to be. Not letting her get buried under all the everyday logistics.