I have held my baby for one month. Most days, I look a wreck. Most days, I forget to change out of my spit-up-on clothes. Most days, I don't even shower and i forget deodorant. Most nights, I crawl into bed, praying he doesn't wake for hours.
Brandon and I escaped on Saturday for an anniversary date. The time for just us was amazing- quiet, uninterrupted conversation! And it may have been the highlight of my weekend. (Not the family walk. Not snuggle time. Not morning play time.) Some days, when Brandon comes home for lunch, I can't wait to pass August to him. Some days, I keep checking the clock, waiting for 5:15.
Because mothering is constant, and we have our good and our bad days, August and I. Because I am impatient and selfish and distracted. Because he is weeks old and needs SO MUCH from me.
But then he smiles. He locks his gaze with mine. He settles to quiet when I read to him. He holds tight to my finger.
And I think to myself "I love motherhood."
All the warnings of changing endless diapers, sleepless nights, piles of laundry mean nothing. Suddenly the saying "it's different when it's your kid" actually means just that.
Most days, I laugh when he pees on me. I fold his mini clothes, knowing he will soon outgrow them. Most days, I cry because April flew and June looms before me. I cry, knowing time has its limits. So I scoop him, crying, into my arms at 1, 2, 4 in the morning and think "I'm so thankful it's me."