Some Weeks Reek

This week has been rough. To start, I returned to work after maternity leave (a reason enough to write off a whole week as being rough). In addition, my child gave a whole new definition to the term “blow out” at the doctor’s office (If you follow me on Instagram, you saw the war zone; my pants, the table, the doctor – no one was safe). We were there in the first place for her excessive, volcanic acid reflux. So if you’re keeping track at home, that is both ends expelling bodily fluids rapidly and violently while I try to leave her for long periods of time. Like I said, it’s been a rough week.

Father’s Day is two days away and other than this and this, I haven’t gotten an actual present. The old me would have had this bought months ago, carefully planned and primed in advance.

Ah, the old me. The one who smelled good. The one who went for runs and took naps. The one who could sit on the toilet without a child in her lap. The old me, who last year during this exact week, found out she was pregnant.

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Photo by: Molly Ann Photo + Design / Roots grown out, fingernails not painted, unhappy baby: by me.

I saw the positive test while brushing my teeth. The pacing and crying and praying began. My husband was in Columbus all day for work so I had the day to plan how to tell him. I went to the store and bought a cute onesie. I finished all my work, cleaned the house, and still had time to freshen up before he got home. It was a wonderful week.

Now, me freshening up is putting on deodorant (cause did I this morning?) and new nursing pads (only if they’ve been through it – those things are expensive). One year later and so much has changed.

Did I think I’d be covered in poop and this much spit up? No. Do I mind? Yes, I smell like poop.

But as my Dad would say, if it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t be here. I don’t rethink our decision, our life. I don’t hide in the bathroom (for too long). I clean her up and say, “Awe, I wouldn’t like rectal thermometers either,” and then blame her grossness on her dad like every good mom.

I remember the miracle that she is and hold her closer.

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Photo by: Molly Ann Photo + Design

So for those about to become mamas, or those who have passed the bodily fluids stage (’cause it does end, right?): when we have bad weeks, let’s remember the good ones. The ones that changed our lives forever. And pray we get many more.

Like next week. Please be better next week.

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