Some days everything goes to crap and all day, all day I try to get out for that walk, that 15-minute walk to the grocery store that I crave, savor, must have every day. Except the timing isn’t working and here comes another meltdown and I hold my overtired, wailing baby and sing and bounce until she finally falls asleep and watch the light disappear and with it, my hope for a walk.
Some days I realize it’s 2 pm and I’m still wearing pajamas and not in a cozy, stay-at-home way but in a way that makes me feel small and alone.
Some days there isn’t time to eat, it just doesn’t work because I cannot master the art of preparing and eating food while my baby cries.
Some days, most days I hold her all day long because she will not nap on her back.
Some days I realize the plans I made with such confidence are logistically impossible. I’m sorry, I say. I didn’t factor in enough time to get out of the house. Or: I thought this fussy phase would be over by now. Or: I thought maybe I could get her to nap through to her bedtime.
I don’t get to see people I really want to see. I don’t get to dress up and go out and try to feel normal for a little while. I pout. I am not very good at adapting to change when it means missing out on something I was looking forward to.
But the greatest surprise of this week is that I’m not afraid of it anymore. I’m okay with missing out. This week I helped Reiden through a tough time instead of meeting up with an old friend. I let her sleep instead of getting her up too early and rushing her out the door to make a breakfast appointment. I got her to bed while my friends ate and drank at one of my favourite restaurants without me. I imagined them there, all the laughing and chatter and noise and teasing and reminiscing.
I missed all those things, for sure. But it felt a little better, this week. More like normal. More like being a mom and putting her first is kind of, really, wonderfully okay.