There are nights that sleep descends on me
like a blanket coming down
and I stay in sleep so easily,
disturbed by not a sound.
But then there are the nights
with incidents my earplugs cannot mute
potty breaks and whining,
bed territory disputes.
Driftin’, dreamin’, dozin’,
snoozin’, snorin’, nappin’
Sleep never seems so crucial
until it doesn’t happen.
There’s a fun blogsite called Dear Teen Me, where authors write letters to their teen selves. Perhaps there is another site for people writing to themselves before they were parents, but I haven’t come across one yet.
Guess we’ll just have to fill that niche, now, won’t we?
.
Dear Pre-Mommy Me,
Being a parent is hard.
Wait. Stop. Read that first sentence again, because I don’t think you’re actually getting it. Being a parent is HARD.
You still don’t get it. Really, there’s no way you can. Maybe if you did a ride-along with another new mom, sleeping in her bed (or, rather, NOT sleeping), following her into the bathroom for the showers she can’t take in peace, experiencing the excruciating pain that is a poorly-latched breastfeeding session, and then the crazy-making times of being so super-in-love with this baby and also having to remember to keep your cool and NOT SHAKE THE BABY who will NOT stop crying and now you can’t stop crying and why couldn’t you just have been happy with your husband and a cat? Maybe then, you might get it.
You’ll want to scream shut up at every person who tells you, nodding wisely and nostalgically, that “it goes by so fast,” because it doesn’t feel that way when it’s actually going by.
And free time? You’re gonna have to fight for it. Nobody’s going to wave the magic Free Time Wand and hand it to you. Don’t forget to ask. Don’t forget to tell people what you need (because twelve months is an awfully long time to take to learn that lesson).
You will come to depend on your family and friends in ways that are thoroughly humbling and teach you the meanings of grace and compassion. Remember to thank them often [Dear Me-of-the-right now: thank those folks!].
Babies aren’t for everyone, but babe, once you have one, you’ll know there’s no going back, and even if you could, you wouldn’t.
With love, pity, and a surplus of picture books,
In-love-with-my-beautiful-family Me
PS: Your body will never look the same. Do us all a favor and get over it.
———————————————-
Annnnnd…because I’m going to have my hands full with a new baby in a few weeks, I’d like to invite other parents and aunties and uncles and friends who would like to share their own letters to themselves before their lives were taken over by kidlets. Your letters can help me out while I’m busy on the babywagon. If you’re interested, send me an email or use the contact page above.
33 weeks pregnant.
[No image to share. Imagine, if you will, a bloated sea mammal.]
We’ve got the crib.
Yup, that's my storyboard tucked inside. I promise to move it before the baby comes.
Now it just needs a room.
What? The view from here is great! Kitchen in one direction, living room in the other, and BOOM. Books.
Perfect view for a budding bibliophile.
It’s a longer story than that, but I’ll try to make it short because honestly, I need a donut. Homes put the crib together in the living room because our teeny bedroom doesn’t have enough space for putting furniture together. And now the crib won’t fit through the doorway. Even with the door taken off. So here it rests, in the middle of this room-without-a-name (I call it the Third Room, but it is essentially a very wide hallway with books), until we rearrange the bedroom to make space for (re)assembling the crib.
Oh yeah, and the place where we were going to put it in our bedroom? It would give us approximately eleven inches to squeeze between it and our bed in order to reach the bathroom.
I purposefully bought a cheapie small IKEA crib because I didn’t want a freaking monstrosity taking up the nonexistent space in my house! (!!!!!!!!!!) (Yes, those are optional exclamation points. This way you can hear me shouting that sentence, or, if your ears are feeling strong, shrieking it while I grip the lapels of someone responsible and shake them until something changes or I collapse into either a) a coughing fit (yes I have another cold) or b) a set of false contractions.)
Ahem.
I better get me that donut, and fast.
“Wednesday Five” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as “Friday Five,” but whatever. Beyond caring.
1. After a four-day weekend, I’d been looking forward to Z’s school week with a kind of desperation. She went to school on Monday and I was totally productive, got all kinds of writing work done, felt great. She’s been home yesterday and today with a nasty cough, and my desperation is spiraling to madness.
2. Locked my keys in my car at Target. This was supposed to be a quick trip (fail) to break up the afternoon (success) and indulge my nesting instinct (fail – storage boxes out of stock, one of the two I purchased was cracked when I got it home). The trip wasn’t a disaster, really, but just One of Those Things. God bless Triple-A.
3. Beta-reading a book for a writer friend and LOVING it. I’ll get to feel all superior on Friday in her interview because I’ll have inside knowledge of her book, which isn’t coming out until next Spring. Tune in on Friday for a NiFtY Author interview with Talia Vance!
4. Z has been talking, constantly, to herself, for the past half hour. All while squishing Play-Doh around on the table and invariably mashing it into her clothes. I don’t care. It’s a break. “Backyardigans” is next on our Very Special Mother-Daughter Bonding Day agenda. God bless Play-Doh. God bless the “Backyardigans.”
5. Sorry for the doom & gloom tone of this post! Promise, things aren’t as bleak as they sound. I’ve got that good book for beta-reading, Homes stayed home this morning to give me some work time, and I don’t have to leave the house (and face the wind) again today. I see a nap in my near future, and my dreams will be to the “Backyardigans” soundtrack.
You’d think, having been a cat owner since I was eight years old, that I’d have been exposed to the toxoplasmosis whatsit at some point. Nope.
No cleaning out the litter box. Cool.
No lifting of heavy objects. As if I wanted to.
No lying on back. Bummer.
No alcohol. What?!
No sushi. Eff!
Must remember: naps, maternity pants, ice cream, no dieting, no cleaning the cat box.
Must also remember: only two months to go.
And then there will be…
No sleep!
Beth Hull 