Look at the gloriously beautiful lady and squished up cosy baby above. Look at the light in her eyes and the security in his body language. I could revel in the image of Ben meeting my granny for hours.
Except I couldn't. Couldn't revel because I was so so tired. Because my right boob was sore. Because my left shoulder ached from the weird angle I tried to lie at to make it easy for Ben to nurse while I dozed through Saturday night in an effort to get just a little rest between the cluster feeds.
On Sunday the hormones and broken sleep and diary dates we couldn't cancel caught up with me. The notion that even though I'm tired, so tired and even though my friends and family are telling me not to overdo it and to rest more, I had to carry on as normally as possible.
On Sunday I was short with my husband because he is more realistic than me and knows that no-one actually cares that we haven't arranged the baby cards in an easy to see and Pinterest perfect display.
I wanted to sell my firstborn when we arrived at the Halloween party he hadn't stopped talking about since Wednesday and threw a fit and wanted to go home. I didn't believe anyone who said I looked great or I was doing great to be out. I assumed they were just trying to be encouraging in face of the zombie I'd turned into.
On Sunday I had an actual urge to squash my middle child when he kept crashing in to me as I nursed Ben from my agonisingly sore side. Because he loves to pat the baby but that means I have to deploy ninja reflexes to make sure no head injuries occur.
Ben was all snuggled against me that evening because I couldn't face another round of will he settle in the moses basket roulette. But I needed him to because all of the stuff.
The stuff that needs recycled. The stuff that needs to be put away and added to the thank you list. The cards about to fall off the mantelpiece. The clothes that need folded and put away. The moby wrap abandoned in a heap on the couch. The toys which have broken free from the playroom and mounted a large scale invasion of the living room. And don't get me started on the current condition of the spare room. But in reality, none of it mattered on Sunday night and the stuff that still hasn't been done still doesn't matter.
The rational me knows gorgeous Ben definitely has his days and nights muddled and since he's still a teeny wee squish, I'm doing my best to roll with it. Over the next few days he'll get more and more alert and be more awake during the day and more sleepy during the night. If I remember to rest either in the morning for a while or get in bed early, I'll be more prepared for the midnight parties and less freaked out that I'm going to forget he's in bed with us.
The rational me didn't come out until some tears had passed and I'd eaten some chocolate. Until my husband who is by now well used to my new mother behaviour pattern had given me a hug. Until my mum had (kindly) told me to pull myself together and remember I'm not Wonder Woman. Until some friends had reminded me that I am the only one who judges me so harshly.
I am putting those feelings firmly away now. I'm going to get back to revelling.
Except I couldn't. Couldn't revel because I was so so tired. Because my right boob was sore. Because my left shoulder ached from the weird angle I tried to lie at to make it easy for Ben to nurse while I dozed through Saturday night in an effort to get just a little rest between the cluster feeds.
On Sunday the hormones and broken sleep and diary dates we couldn't cancel caught up with me. The notion that even though I'm tired, so tired and even though my friends and family are telling me not to overdo it and to rest more, I had to carry on as normally as possible.
On Sunday I was short with my husband because he is more realistic than me and knows that no-one actually cares that we haven't arranged the baby cards in an easy to see and Pinterest perfect display.
I wanted to sell my firstborn when we arrived at the Halloween party he hadn't stopped talking about since Wednesday and threw a fit and wanted to go home. I didn't believe anyone who said I looked great or I was doing great to be out. I assumed they were just trying to be encouraging in face of the zombie I'd turned into.
On Sunday I had an actual urge to squash my middle child when he kept crashing in to me as I nursed Ben from my agonisingly sore side. Because he loves to pat the baby but that means I have to deploy ninja reflexes to make sure no head injuries occur.
Ben was all snuggled against me that evening because I couldn't face another round of will he settle in the moses basket roulette. But I needed him to because all of the stuff.
The stuff that needs recycled. The stuff that needs to be put away and added to the thank you list. The cards about to fall off the mantelpiece. The clothes that need folded and put away. The moby wrap abandoned in a heap on the couch. The toys which have broken free from the playroom and mounted a large scale invasion of the living room. And don't get me started on the current condition of the spare room. But in reality, none of it mattered on Sunday night and the stuff that still hasn't been done still doesn't matter.
The rational me knows gorgeous Ben definitely has his days and nights muddled and since he's still a teeny wee squish, I'm doing my best to roll with it. Over the next few days he'll get more and more alert and be more awake during the day and more sleepy during the night. If I remember to rest either in the morning for a while or get in bed early, I'll be more prepared for the midnight parties and less freaked out that I'm going to forget he's in bed with us.
The rational me didn't come out until some tears had passed and I'd eaten some chocolate. Until my husband who is by now well used to my new mother behaviour pattern had given me a hug. Until my mum had (kindly) told me to pull myself together and remember I'm not Wonder Woman. Until some friends had reminded me that I am the only one who judges me so harshly.
I am putting those feelings firmly away now. I'm going to get back to revelling.
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