The truth? It's a bit weary.
You may recall this post when it all sounded like relative bliss?
Well If I remember correctly, I was still on drugs. 2 Percocet every 4 hours to be exact. Which would explain the overall elation and sense of "...this is kind of easy!" attitude. Man, that stuff is good. Not to mention, Weston's daily routine two weeks ago consisted of sleep induced feeding sessions and marathon naps.
I want to keep things honest around here, so I am finally getting around to blogging about how life has really been progressing these past few weeks with a newborn and toddler in the house (and who knows how long this will actually take to become a post rather than a draft...)
You see, Weston is my boy. My baby. My sweet, innocent, precious little bug right now. His grunts and moans and lip smacks make me swoon and the way his lips pucker and cheeks swell while smashed against my chest wrapped up in the Moby makes my heart melt. I inhale every bit of his scent after his bath and I even love the traces of baby acne around his eyes. The way his pinky goes limp when he falls asleep and watching his eyes roll back in his head as he drifts off in my arms is a blessing and a gift. When his glassy blue eyes search to lock with mine, I feel the connection and am filled with joy. There is no doubt that I love him, adore him, with every bit of my being.
...But...I still feel...off.
I can't quite get my groove back since welcoming West home and a fog has transcended over my everyday outlook these past few weeks. My hormones have had me on an unpredictable roller coaster of complete highs and some very real lows and Chris and I have looked at each other more than once with a..."what the F did we do?" glance when Weston is arching and crying with reflux pain and Logan is persistently begging us (again) to please just dance with her.
We have started over.
And I would be lying if I said that it wasn't tough or that I didn't miss our old routine. Getting out the door in a minute. No longer having to gather a diaper bag, extra outfits and prepped bottles. Getting a full night's sleep and even some alone time when Logan napped or one of us needed a few hours away from the house. Things had gotten pretty nice around here and after two and half years, we had found our family "zen".
Before Weston arrived, I was anxiously awaiting the challenge of being a mom of two and felt as though it would all come more naturally this time around. I was prepared for the nights with a newborn and feeding every few hours and the dirty laundry and Logan becoming a big sister and I figured that I would take it all in stride. I was prepared for difficult times and even starting at square one again.
What I wasn't prepared for, however, was the "funk" I feel myself in.
The funk of "What exactly am I doing with my life?" "How did I become a mother of two kids?" "How long can I run errands, clean messes and do laundry on a daily basis?" "What is my purpose right now and exactly how many children's crafts can one do, songs can one sing and stories can one read without going officially crazy?"
The funk of "I would really just rather pour a glass of wine and finish Season Two of Breaking Bad and start on the juicy gossip of Girls instead of taking care of two bambinos all day" and the funk of "I am so jealous that Chris leaves the house each morning with a cup of coffee and listens to NPR all the way to work while I haven't seen an actual news or morning show in months and car time is filled with my own rendition of Old McDonald...on repeat." The fact that leaving the house is no longer an easy feat and that getting two kids in and out of the car is a small miracle of the day. This weekend, I had to take an extra long shower just to avoid any more cartoon voices on the tv while I handed Weston to Chris and said, "...I need a few minutes." The funk of nightly hour long feeding sessions in which I finally get Weston to settle back to sleep only to start the process over again in another hour or so.
Yes, weary indeed.
I have been pretty vocal about my feelings. To friends, to my family, to Chris. When people come over to visit, I practically beg them to stay for some adult interaction and to chat about topics other than diapers, formula and sleep.
I know that this is a relatively short phase and I am fairly certain that my feelings fall somewhere in the range of normal and I am not (all that) ashamed to share the way I feel. And while I cringe at the dreaded PPD status, I would say that I might have a mild case?! One that I know will dissipate with time (not to mention warmer, sunnier weather and nights filled with more than 4 hours of sleep) but an unpleasant, unexpected and unwanted state of being nonetheless. One that I look forward to seeing go.
But for now, we will continue on. Hopefully making progress day by day on our new normal and settling into the Monday - Friday's in which Chris is not here to lend an extra hand. We will head to the mall play place yet again to pass some time and for Logan to get some energy out. I will take many deep breaths and repeat the Darius Rucker lyrics, "...it won't be like this for long..." and at the end of the day, I will smile and feel thankful for the opportunity and responsibility of raising these two beauties...
Can anyone else relate while adjusting to life with two?