The Reality of Motherhood

And here is my first blog that certain people may wish to avoid - for example: male family members and anyone else who would rather not hear some of the entrapments of nursing and motherhood in general. Also, anyone that I would like to have some semblance of respect for me now or in the future. Actually, it probably shouldn't be read by anyone. You should probably leave now and check in again tomorrow.

Larkin has ordained that naps will only be held for a maximum of twenty minutes at a time, and shall only be taken while in my arms. I’m vaguely aware (in the back of my sleep deprived mind) that this is a habit that needs to change. But if it’s between sitting very still for awhile (and maybe even getting a little sleep myself) or having a fussy, over-tired baby for the rest of the day – I’ll accept faking like a statue for awhile.

The true downside to this arrangement is that I get zero time during the day that I’m not actively holding a baby. Don’t get me wrong, I adore snuggling my little prince. But it does get draining to not have a minute to yourself – plus, it makes peeing very difficult. Actually, it makes doing ANYTHING pretty difficult. So basically, my day as a functioning adult starts at 10:30ish when Larkin typically gives in for the night. That’s when I’m able to edit photos, update my blog, send any e-mails which require more than one hand for writing, and just generally *relax*.

(It’s times like this that my new mantra “This too shall pass” is very effective. I’m well aware that sooner rather than later, my sweet son will want nothing to do with cuddles.)

I had just finally started to relax for the first time all day. The baby was tucked in his crib fast asleep, and I was debating between catching up on the DVR, finishing up the book I’ve been trying to read, or just following the little one into dreamland. Before I could make my decision, Larkin started to cry. HARD.

I ran into our room and picked him up. I carried him to the recliner in the living room and proceeded to nurse him back to sleep (yes, yes, also a ‘bad’ habit and blah blah blah). After awhile, his breathing became deep and regular. I went to unlatch him… and he immediately snapped awake. Sigh. Back to square one.

We repeated the dance a few time, until I was finally able to separate him (I AM THE HUMAN PACIFIER). I reached between us to pull my bra and tank back in place.  Then – WHAAAAAAAA! Sigh. We repeat the above steps, with no success. FINE, MAN. I get him back to sleep, and just leave the tank down on that side.

I stood up as slowly and carefully as possible, and headed for the crib. Blue eyes, wide open. Siiiiiigh. Sit back down, go back to nursing. Repeat the above steps three more times. Finally, he was fully asleep. I stand up with the utmost care annnnnnd: SUCCESS. *insert shallow sigh of relief, not deep enough to disturb the baby*

I take the first step towards the bedroom and disaster strikes. I feel my pants start to slide down my hips. Yes, these pants have been way too big for awhile now (they were purchased in the first trimester of my pregnancy and are the perfect transition pants: super soft, lightweight, and with no discernible waist… aka: ‘mom’ pants) but they are handy for those spur of the moment naps that I am currently surviving off of so they have stayed.

I stop and try to figure out how to salvage the situation (and any semblance of dignity). I quickly realize I am waaaay less attached to my dignity than to the concept of a sleeping child. Plus, Jonathan is outside, and there is no one around to witness my situation (until now – hello, world!) so I waddle on, pants rapidly pooling around my ankles.

I gently place my sleeping infant in his crib, then yank my pants up with one hand and tuck myself back into my top with the other. I lean over the crib, my head in my hands, and wonder where in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” they cover things like this. I shake it off, and go outside to tell my husband goodnight.

I open the garage door and he takes one look at me.

“You’ve leaked all over your top.”

Sigh.

And THAT is how glamorous motherhood REALLY is.