I am someone's mom

I can't believe Owen has been here for seven weeks. Seven weeks and four days, if you're counting. I am. LOOK AT HIM:


I remain regularly dumbfounded that this beautiful, tiny, perfectly proportioned, wonderfully perfect human was in my body all year. That bump that caused me such grief, it was HIM. All those kicks and gymnastics. MY OWEN. It was him all along. 

I am obsessed. I am truly obsessed. 

And if we can have some real talk for a minute (when can we not?), I need to say something: postpartum is equally as uncomfortable and likely more gross than pregnancy. I DIDN'T THINK IT WAS POSSIBLE. The benefit, however, is that I get to snuggle with my baby to make up for it. At all hours of the night. Because that's when he's awake. 

Childbirth, as discussed, was messy. And damaging to my parts. The first few times I lifted myself from bed in the hospital, I left a trail of blood from the bed to the bathroom. I lived on every-three-hours Ibuprofen and Tylenol for two days. I put frozen pads in my giant mesh underwear. It felt uncomfortable to sit. It felt terrifying to use the bathroom. To be honest, sometimes it still is. For seven weeks, I used menstrual pads. LIKE I WAS TWELVE. 


For seven weeks, I was disgusting. I only recently stopped using the handy peribottle from the hospital, not so much because I needed it, but because HAVE YOU EVER USED A BIDET? It's kind of amazing. I let go of that poor man's bidet reluctantly. 

I didn't leave the hospital 15 pounds lighter. In fact, I don't think I left the hospital down even the six pounds Owen took up in my body. My bump had decreased quite a bit, but my body clung to fluids and weight with a kung fu grip. Now, seven weeks out, I'm down 20 of the 33 pounds I gained. To the untrained eye I look super for someone who "just" had a baby. But to my very critical, very up-close-and-personal eye, I feel every one of those 13 pounds. My middle is squishy. My face still holds weight. My pre-pregnancy jeans technically go on my body, but they're snug. Quite snug. Snug enough that those extra pounds remind me of their existence every time I sit down.

I'm sweaty, often. Which isn't much different than pregnancy. Or pre-pregnancy, let's be real. Other than pads in my underwear, I've also got pads in my bra. Everything leaks. My old bras don't fit, and nursing bras are so terribly unflattering and dowdy. I feel dowdy. 


In fact, I got a haircut a couple weeks ago in an attempt to feel fresh and clean and pretty -- and to prepare myself for the epic postpartum hair loss I've heard so much about. When I got home, Todd says, "You look like a mom."

To be fair, he also said it was pretty. 



On the bright side, I AM SOMEONE'S MOM. That still bewilders me. I have a son. 


"I have to make an appointment for my son."

"I need to add my son to my insurance policy."

"This is my son, Owen."

Every time I mention him in conversation, my heart flutters. I am a mom. I AM A MOM. It blows my mind. It also blows my mind that I did it. I'm doing it. I'm navigating the thick, newborn forest. Sure, there has been crying -- from both of us. The sleep deprivation in the first couple weeks hurt. Every two hours he needed to be fed, but nursing was a struggle. I'd nurse, I'd pump, and I'd give him more breast milk in a bottle. Every feeding took nearly 90 minutes. I felt clumsy. I felt overwhelmed. Every couple hours when he'd cry, my chest would tighten because I knew my next hour-and-a-half would be a struggle. 

But here we are, and he's creeping up on two months old (HOW?), and we did it. He nurses without trouble. I can feed him in a half hour -- in the back of the Jeep, even. I am learning his cries. Instead of several times a night, he is up once in the middle of the night. And while coming out of a deep sleep at the sound of his cry is hard when I'm exhausted, I love to be with him. I love knowing he needs me. 

His eyes are big and blue, and he searches our faces. He's on the cusp of smiling, AND I CAN'T WAIT. He is, without a doubt, the best thing I ever created. We are so, so lucky to have him, even when he blows out his diaper, even when he pees down the wall, even when he wakes us up at night. He is ours and we are his. 



So after all those months of discomfort and fear and weight gain and carpal tunnel and unknown, I got him in the end. I am someone's mom. I wouldn't change it.