When I walked into Foundation, The Rolling Stones’ 1971 album “Sticky Fingers” was playing in the background. Peter and Alex Cohen, brothers and owners of the shop, lounged on chairs as they chatted with two customers who were flipping through their newest shipment. “We started to sell records on Instagram to fund the other stuff we […]
As I write, it is my 19th day as a mom. I am not yet in control over the daily schedule of feed/wake/sleep every three hours. I am still trying to get a handle on napping. I’m physically and emotionally healing the battle wounds I earned during birth. I am learning to manage my sucky hormones, which continue to fail me without a moment’s notice.
These hormones make me cry — about everything.
I cry because my baby is so beautiful and healthy. I cry because I don’t want my husband to leave for work in the morning. I cry because of how much more in love I am now with this man I thought I loved so much already.
I cry because my regular pants still don’t fit. And because I know I can’t wear maternity clothes forever.
I cry because I haven’t slept for more than two hours in a row.
I cry because the house is a mess. And because I can’t find her pacifier when I know there are six of them somewhere.
I cry because we just ran out of diapers, even though we bought a Costco-sized box a few days ago. And because there’s baby poop in my hair. And my favorite baby outfit already has poop stains on it — and I don’t know how to get poop stains off clothing.
Oh, what a difference a year makes.
Last January, our days comprised of chatting about work as we dined at the newest restaurant, taking Reggie on the longest walks we could find and planning our next microadventure.
This January, I still haven’t left the house all week, Reggie has been walking himself in the backyard, and the only foods on the dinner table are quick, easy and usually leftover from the night before.
My husband and I are living a new kind of “in-between” these days. In between awake and asleep. In between feedings. In between pure bliss every time she smiles and pure despair when we can’t get her to stop crying.
There’s no doubt that this year promises the start of a journey unlike any other. Our lives (and this newspaper column) are about to take a sharp turn into the unknown. And we can’t wait for what’s in store.