Okay for real though

Okay so listen, I've gotten all the flowery, beautiful sentiments out of the way, so until further notice I can return to the real shit. 

I am a mom now. I got a goddamn mom haircut. I have a smooshy mom body. I loathe two of those three facts of life. [Spoiler alert: it's not being a mom because I am obsessed with my baby at a DEFCON 5 level and no one even wants to be my friend on Facebook anymore because I don't stop posting pictures of him every time he breathes a different way, probably even my husband].

But I am over the postpartum body. There are ten pounds still hanging on, and while my body appears mostly put back into place, it is not. IT'S NOT. It's smoosh. I sit, and what used to have at least the slightest semblance of strength and firmness just folds over my pants. I fucking hate it with the fire of 96 suns. I feel self conscious. I feel gross. I feel like my midsection is no longer made of muscle, but is actually made of pudding. I like pudding. I hate pudding belly. 

Pudding belly is shit, you guys. 

I'd do something about it, but I'm tired. I'm tired because I love my baby more than all 96 suns that light the fire of my mom body hatred, but he certainly doesn't sleep through the night. Almost, though! But I'm still up at least once overnight to nurse him and change him and love him and stare at him and post 14 more pictures of him on social media while the rest of the world GETS THE SLEEP I WISH I HAD. 

Once -- one time in two-and-a-half-months -- I got almost 7 hours of sleep in a row. He had a unicorn night of sleep. A full night. The next day I was a brand new person who went to work, did daycare pickup, washed and folded laundry, started dinner, ran two miles, prepped life for the next day's living, nursed a baby, bathed a baby, and realized dreams I never had, like the ability to feel like a human person. 

But other than that, nah. There is no true sleep. No true restfulness. This is my life now. I'd be more mad, but like I said, I AM OBSESSED WITH MY BABY. 

And here's the thing. Remember that time I was like OMG I hope I have a girl? I threatened the doctor who performed our anatomy scan because THERE HAD BETTER BE A GIRL IN THERE, YOU HEAR? 

I love my boy. I love my boy so much I don't even want a girl anymore. I mean, like, ever. Not that I wanted to actually change my current boy to a girl. I mean, if we ever do this again (HAHAHAHAHAHA), I better have a boy. He is just... he is everything. He is so everything that I don't even know that I'd want to do this again anyway because I have him. 

He is the literal best baby. 

I also discovered many, varied things about my childbirth in the weeks since he was born. One, my heart-shaped uterus kicked him out early. Turns out he grew into one side of said heart-shaped uterus until he ran out of room. So one Thursday evening while I mourned the impending loss of my beloved kitty, he was like LOL SEE YA, and broke his way out. 

Two, while my placenta technically came out intact, it left behind many, varied... things. So many things that seven weeks after expelling that crap (the placenta) (not the baby) (to be clear) from my heart-shaped uterus, I had to have surgery to scrape more of it out. All the gross, calcified retained placenta and birth... stuff. I spent all that time bleeding and being gross and wondering if postpartum was truly just a fun way to bleed for the rest of your life. 

So I had a baby, bled for weeks, then had surgery to scrape my uterus clean, and at my last doctor appointment my doctor was all, "So when you're ready for another..." and I laughed and laughed and laughed. Because, are you serious? Close that shit for business, please. 


So here we are. Almost 11 weeks into motherhood. I remember being 11 weeks pregnant. I'd just told my parents I was pregnant and they lost their minds, and it turns out they've lost even more of their minds now that they have a real, tangible grandchild. 

It's amazing, I'm not going to lie. 

I had amazing grandparents growing up, and I think this kid is going to one-up my own childhood. My parents already love him more than they ever loved me and I'm not even mad about it. Their baby has a baby now, so I imagine the love you have for your own baby just quadruples for that baby's offspring. Baby squared. Love squared. Offspring math.

So my life is now feeding a baby, sleeping sometimes, pumping every three hours at work, staring at photos of my baby, watching Marvel movies with my husband, thinking about my baby, thinking about running but not actually running, posting more photos of my baby on the internet, wondering how many people wish I'd stop posting so many goddamn photos of my baby on the internet, not caring about what those people think, sanitizing everything, taking one more picture of my baby, looking at the treadmill, looking outside, looking at my smooshy belly, changing diapers, and posting another picture of my baby on the internet. 


Here is a picture of my baby. Suckers. He doesn't have time for your crap: