"Oh yes, Mummy, I ate ALL of my Cheerios…"
When I think of how much I love my son, it occurs to me that I will never accurately describe the extent of that love.
This isn’t the sort of love that fades with anger or time, it’s not the sort of love that is dependant on temperament or a good day at work. It’s not a new love that fills me with butterflies and excitement. It’s entirely different.
It’s a feeling of fullness in my chest, my stomach and my heart. When people say they are “brimming” with love, they must mean this. It envelopes me, and overwhelms me and remains in and around me regardless of what else I am doing.
I just have to hear his name, or see his photograph, and I can’t hide my smile. I could talk about him all day, the way he wriggles his entire body when he is excited, the way he has learned to point his finger, and touch it against my own, the way he loves blueberries, his little hands that reach for my face, the way he goes floppy with silent laughter when I tickle his sides. I could fill up an entire library with the reasons I love him, with the tiny character traits that make my heart ache with total, unquestionable love.
When I look at those perfect eyes, lips, nose, and hands, and I remember that I made them myself, it stops me in my tracks and leaves me breathless. How is it possible that one body can make another, that my own flawed body could make something that is entirely right and alive and so full of opportunity? I have created a whole new person with a beating heart and his own, unique fingerprints. I have given someone a life, a chance to do anything at all. He could be a future world leader, or find a cure for cancer. His possibilities are endless. Yet, all I want for him is to be happy, even above my own happiness or my own life. I wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice my life if it meant he would live.
Even that doesn’t begin to explain the extent and strength of the love I feel for my son. It’s astounding to me that no combination of words will ever relay how I feel about him.
I think I made up a song in my sleep. I dreamt I was singing this:
"Ninky Nonky, I won a donkey,
Now I don’t need to buy a car.”
If I could relay the tune to you, I would… its been stuck in my head all day.
Clearly I’m a musical genius.
— An Apology to My Body | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
Today we went to a Christening, and there was a buffet. I ate appropriately for the first time ever at something like that. I didn’t binge and end up feeling sick, neither did I eat nothing but carrot sticks and fruit, and come away hungry and light headed. I’m still in shock about this, I didn’t even think about it. Normally I obsess over a buffet before I even arrive. “I’ll eat x but not y, I won’t have seconds unless everyone else does…” etc etc.
Today I was playing with Alfie and his little friends, we were talking and feeding the babies and generally doing parenty stuff. M got me a plate of food, I ate it. They had mini cakes for dessert. I selected 2. TWO. Not 0, not 6. 2 small pieces of different flavoured cake. They were good but I didn’t feel the nagging sensation that I needed to go back for more. We listened to good music, danced with the babies, helped behind the bar, clapped when they cut the cake, toasted the little girl who had been baptised… and I wasn’t thinking about the food like I normally do.
The point is I ate like… A “normal” person, and it wasn’t anxiety filled and planned to the last letter and stressful.
I honestly don’t know how I’m going to have time to go back to work. I thought maternity leave would be all daytime TV and coffee, but I can’t remember the last time I put the TV on, and I really can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to reheat my coffee in the microwave.
|My turn:||Baby murmurs, jump out of bed, go to baby.|
|Approx time:||8 seconds.|
|Husband's turn:||Baby murmurs, I poke husband, baby cries, I poke husband harder.|
|Husband:||rolls over, stretches, looks at time, sighs heavily, lies flat on back with eyes closed, sits up, finds T shirt, goes to the bathroom, has a drink of water, goes to baby.|
|Approx time:||8 minutes.|
For everyone out there thinking theyre too fat to eat to eat breakfast, I’ve just watched my 8 month old demolish a bowl of porridge, a slice of toast, and about 10 blueberries. If a baby needs all of that to function at approximately one third of an adult’s size, I’m sure you can eat some toast or something…
1. My body carried, gave birth to, and is currently nourishing my child. This is more important than anything I will ever do, and I couldn’t do it if my body wasn’t healthy. My hips have widened, my breasts have grown, and my stomach is soft. These are signs of the amazing life I have created, not signs of greed or weakness.
2. I starved my body for years, punished it for its shape and my genes. It has become primed to hold on to fat in case of famine. it doesn’t do this to annoy me, because I’m stupid, or because it hates me. It does this to protect me, and to keep me alive.
3. People who know me couldn’t care less how my body looks today compared to 18 months ago. All they worry about is my happiness. If they do care about the pounds on my body then they are not the sort of people I want in my life.
4. Seeing my baby smile at me first thing in the morning, cuddling him as he drifts off to sleep, playing with him, making him laugh, helping him explore every tiny detail of his world, and being the most important person in his life is infinity more rewarding than seeing the number on the scale creep lower and lower.
I have to admit that I never “got” baby wearing. I tried with various wraps and slings and always ended up hot, with achy shoulders, a wriggly baby, and feeling like my chest was being squashed.
Today I take it all back. I acquired a mei tai, It was comfortable, easy to put on, and within 10 minutes Alfie was asleep. I think this carrier will be a new baby essential for me. :D
I adore the breastfeeding support worker who runs the group I help at. We were talking about my sore boob yesterday, and she looked at Alfie and said :
"I look at him, and I feel like it’s just so amazing that he’s totally homegrown. (breastfed) Do you realise that what you did for him is incredible?"
And you know what? I am totally accepting that praise. Relactation was one of the most time consuming, frustrating and amazing things I ever did. Sometimes I look at Alfie and think “Damn. I Fully relactated. Me. I actually did something difficult and I did it well.”
P.S. The real world isn’t going to accommodate you and your “comfort.” When you get off Tumblr, there aren’t any trigger warnings. Wearing a nametag with your “gender identity” on it would be absolutely laughable. You’ll have to learn to be an adult and deal with people without being psychotic and wishing death on them.
- Coping skillz time:
I am going to put in a Harry Potter movie, read a few chapters of Alcoholics Anonymous (my favorite recovery book, by far), and...
- unreasonablyanalytical said:OH MY GOODNESS, you look SO good in those photos!! In fact, you look attractively thin. There's definitely a life in your face that was not there before residential. I know that you are still struggling a great deal mentally, but if I was only judging by your pictures, I would say you look wonderful. You don't look angry and lethargic. Girrrrllll, you and I are in the exact same place right now, so don't desert me!
I don’t have such severe resting bitch face anymore! When I see my face look alive, I definitely feel more motivated. Who cares how I feel about my...
- All about N
N looks for babies in everyone’s tummies now. My sis in law and I are both pregnant, so obviously everyone is. Kids are so silly!
- Update from today:
I still have weight to restore (WTF?!).
I might be hyper-metabolic because I am ravenous about every two hours and am constantly...
I just asserted my need to eat (again), and the boyfriend said, “Are you serious?” Then he complained about having to wait for me to go to bed.
- itsthechoosingthatsimportant said:I just started following you, although I'll admit I've creeped your page a few times. :) The work you are putting into getting better motivates me to work on my maladaptive coping mechanisms (I guess recovery would
be more appropriate than “getting better,” but I’m starting to loathe the term… I feel it’s become a cliche and insincere descriptor, but that’s an...