Becoming a parent is an odd concept. Not only are you taking your genetic material, smashing it into someone else’s and basically cooking it for approximately 9 months … but you’re happily awaiting this abrupt chance of situation with bated breath.
I’m sitting here with my almost-cold-tea, typing things on my half working laptop with my 6 week old son strapped to my chest, because apparently the bassinet that we spent $300 on just isn’t good enough to nap in. Neither is any other flat bed-like surface in this house, beside his rocker which, in order to be used for said naps, must be placed; on top of the kitchen counter when I’m making dinner or; on the floor in my bathroom when I’m taking a shower.
He goes all trippy when he hears running water and just stares at things. I think his eyeballs are going to dry out… but he’s not screaming blue murder, so thats a good thing!
My back feels like it’s been broken and stuck back together with pre-used doubled sided sticky tape – meaning it’s still tacky but not going to hold together much longer! I’ve spent a good portion of the last hour wrangling with my Son’s hands to try and trim (bite) his nails while feeding him because holy crap, babies finger nails are like daggers!
I’m still attempting to be a relatively busy person, even though I’ve not changed from pyjamas in 6 weeks, unless we’re going somewhere… and then It’s leggings, shirt and snow boots because I had someones hand in my guts, shut your face.
I never really thought much of the hard times, when I was dreaming of the kids I’d have. It was all lovely thoughts of smiling faces and hugs. Little did I know, the smiling faces and hugs were really 48hrs with no shower in sight, and squalling tantrums at 2am because he just pee’d through his 3rd nappy of the night. Glamorous.
Being a Mum is not, I repeat, Not glamorous in the least. It’s Real. Painful. Tiring.
You turn into this monster where you both want to put your child on a bus with a sign, Free to good home; and also kill anyone within a twelve km radius that coughs in his general direction.
I’m an angry person. I’m not afraid to say that. I have a whopping great temper which pops its head up now and again to wreak havoc with whatever it feels is necessary to accomplish its mission of ultimate destruction. But, I’m working out that in order to be the best Mum possible and bring up my Son in a loving, caring and positive environment … I’m having to swallow my thoughts of stabbing people and calm the fuck down.
Which means, at 2am when the child-squalling happens, I can’t (any longer) start stomping around the house barefoot, raging about my husband’s lack of support (while he’s literally holding the baby and asking me if I’d like to continue sleeping while he takes over feeding the baby… So scratch that, Oh bitch-of-the-world!)
Except when it comes to protecting my Son… My husband call’s me Mamma Bear for a reason, you know.