God help me, but I have it, and I have it bad.

Despite my best intentions and self-directed propaganda, despite regularly sleeping through the night for going on two years now, despite all physical, emotional, and financial reason, I have caught the baby bug like I catch every virus my children introduce to my ineffectual immune system.

Crap.

What is it about babies that make women idiots?  A three-month-old flashes a gummy grin at me and I suddenly forget two very long, uncomfortable pregnancies, two horrific postpartum recovery periods, two very loud, colicky babies, and a combined four years of sleepless nights.  I hold a sleeping baby in my arms, inhaling its sweet baby-scented hair, and I completely blank out about the sciatica, the back and hip pain, the hernia, the stretch marks, and the 70 lbs. finally lost.  The sight of a mother nursing and the realities of the size of our home, our car, or our bank account vanish like Little People under the couch.  I forget that I’m almost eight years older than when I started.  I forget the fear of losing a baby.  I forget the pain of fear becoming reality.  I forget morning sickness, heartburn, and sinus headaches for which I can take nothing.  I forget the 80% chance of conceiving twins once more.  I forget that in two more years I’ll finally have time to myself again.

But then I remember—in two years, I’ll have time to myself again.  

Babies grow up.  The bitter and the sweet war internally over the inevitability.  

Today was not a good day to go to COSI.

I should have gotten vaccinated.

  

humor motherhood reflection