My Bundle Of Joy.

HA!

A bundle of poop? Yes.

A bundle of tears? Yes.

A bundle of diapers and laundry? Most definitely.

I forgot what it’s like to have a new born.

Feeling like a cow.

Not being able to keep up with the messes.

Changing ANOTHER diaper.

I had a breakdown the other day. I’m embarrassed but can now talk about it without bursting into tears. Matt had to come home early from school to save me (or the kids...) and I felt awful to ask such a thing... but I really forgot what this stage is like.

As I was being screamed at, the phrase, “bundle of joy” went through my head. I think whoever said that never had a newborn.

After Matt got home I left the house for some me time. (Isn’t he the best husband ever?) I went for a massage, got adjusted at the chiropractor, went to McDonalds... It was awesome and it gave me some time to think. And not just time.... QUIET time. I started to feel a bit guilty for the mom I was today. And I still do. But this passes. Right? Right??

I remembered a book I read last May called The Hand That First Held Mine. (Don’t read it on account of me saying that I read it. It’s.... questionable at times...) It goes through Lexi’s life starting when she was a teenager. She falls in love, moves away, makes questionable decisions... and she becomes a journalist! She wrote an article later on in her life about being a mom:

“We change shape...we buy low-heeled shoes, we cut off our long hair. We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breath, they eat, they crawl and - look! - they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch the knees of dungarees. We get used to living with a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live. We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror. We put our dry-clean-only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually, we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying. ‘[crap]’ and ‘[darn]’ and learn to say ‘my goodness’ and ‘heavens above’. We give up smoking, we colour our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming-pools, libraries, cafes for others of our kind. We know each other by our pushchairs, our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We buy biscuit cutters, washable paints, aprons, plastic bowls. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in restaurants, sex after midnight, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight-seamed dresses, their tiny handbags, their smooth, washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep on pushing the pram up the hill.”

Look at him!

I’d never give up my huge purse life. Ever.