I was getting stabby.
He'd wake, from the pack n' play, in the most uber irritating way known to motherkind; he'd whimper and cry a bit in such a way that you're wondering if they'll work it out themselves or really need to be picked up and tended to. As I've mentioned, about 73 times, we're sleepers so this was not cool. All I could think was, at least if J were a newborn he'd be needing something. In those instances, though? I had no idea what the shit he wanted. To appease any curiosity, it wasn't just from being in a new place and we did find a solution. THANK YOU, JESUS.
A couple days into being sick, supa annoying especially since I'm never sick more than 24 hours, it was New Year's Eve and, short of projectile vomiting all over town, I was not going to miss a chance to date my husband on such a holiday! So, as my nausea and lightheadedness (I hope that's a real word) continued, my brother got me some Ginger Ale and my mom fed me oranges for the vitamin C. It was a joint effort to keep me from dying. At least, I was sure I was impending on my last few hours...
Although I felt like someone was stepping on my face, the subsiding of the other symptoms made me feel beyond elated! Hallelujah! I will, indeed, live to see my 27th birthday! That's totally a normal thought.
My dressed up husband and I headed out to dinner, feelin' pretty fly, obviously. I love to get dressed and look cute. I mean, how much of a go-getter do you feel like in your jammies when your hair's in a messy bun? NO DICE. So, I had the opportunity to get dressed up AND go out as just husband and wife, not mama and daddy. Yet, when I still felt off, I realized the changes motherhood has incurred:
I now believe...
*All clothing should have elastic.
As I sat at dinner with my husband, in my cute, pale-pink dress, brown leather jacket, brown leggings, and my boots, all I could think was "GAH! Being dressed up is such a pain in the ass!" It just doesn't seem functional. I mean, my hair's down AND curled so that's obviously some sort of hazard, I can't sit in my most-preferred unfeminine way, and I can't just wipe my hands down the thighs of my lounge pants should some sort of mess occur. It's really just illogical.
Now, now...not that I'm going to become that mama, who goes out in pajamas and doesn't bother to run a brush through her hair or shower, but, hey, I'm still going to stand by all those feelings. I just won't show it. I'm a jedi like that.
*Going out to eat is a presidential occasion.
We don't eat out much. I mean, eating here is so much healthier and, not to mention, less expensive--which my rational self thoroughly enjoys. Why eat out when I cook a wide range of foods at home, usually in some sort of elastic? See previous bullet point.
But, sometimes we do eat out and it goes like this: "Holy shit! Somebody else is going to clean up after little, ol' moi??" OKAY. Jake, feel free to sneeze with a mouthful of food, or dishes for our pre-meal bread? Sure, they're not going in my dishwasher. Of course, I don't mind when these things happen at home, I'm a stay-at-home-mama and I absolutely adore it, but the smallest of shortcuts feels like an epically, fabulous WIN.
*Cartoon characters almost become real people
I think Gary and I have at least one convo a day about Dora, and we know that Pablo from Backyardigans is a worrier.
*Phone calls are for the freakin' birds.
If our conversation can't be carried on via text, it ain't happenin'. I have a pretty rad two year old who's always wanting to count, or read, or mirror me, or a number of other activities that are immeasurably exciting, so they take priority. And, I love it. Totes :-)
*Naps were designed for unbelievably large amounts of productivity.
When J was little, and Gary was deployed, I'd workout during his nap with my yoga and/or pilates DVDs; I'd get ready for our afternoon outing, so I don't have to look like I believe all the things in bullet point #1. Now, as Jake's older, I'll make his applesauce, or blog, or plan meals. Naps are God's gift; they're your 25th hour.
I think, above all else, motherhood has shown me that happiness is relative. I have friends who are also SAHMS and they don't dig it as much as I do. That's totally fine. Because you're not a nerd like me who loves to plan the menu for her boys, or gets a kick out of making her own laundry detergent....there ain't nothing wrong with that! To each their own. Totes magotes. I was told recently, by someone I just super adore, that "...motherhood fits you. It's like you were born for it". I want nothing more than for that to resonate within my little Jake. Him and his daddy completely do it for me xo
But, if there's a way to make elasticized clothing not only cute, but socially-acceptable I just might implode from happiness.