Stretch Pants Are In

Tonight I needed a bath. I just needed a little bit of time away to soak in hot water and steam and silence. It wasn't long before tiny fists were knocking, double time and tiny hands were fumbling (unsuccessfully thank you JEE-SUS) with the bathroom door knob.

I'm such a sucker for my kid and his long lashes and sweet high-pitched voice so I decided to let him join me in the second half of my tub-time, envisioning a picturesque mother-son moment. Within seconds, he had 1.Tried to grab my BRAND NEW IPHONE and toss it into the bath 2.took his toy boat and in one swift motion scoop-splashed water all over the floor and 3. Peed. Like. Full on peed unabashedly into the water. In my panic I grabbed him and tried to aim him somewhere else but it was too late. I grumbled to Josh to get me his toothbrush and I, instead of relaxing, wrestled the equivalent of a 23 pound miniature (soapy) walrus down, brushed his teeth and somewhat washed his hair.

This is mom life sometimes.

Even after bath time, I figured I might salvage the night and somehow transform into a sultry vixen. But. I. Shit I didn't even shave my legs. I sent Josh to get me a diet coke instead.

I am now wearing stretchy pants. I am not only wearing stretchy pants, but stretchy pants that go up to my boobs. I mean they really do...go all the damn way up and under (so nice). I'm also not even wearing a sports bra (referred to in my household as "not a real bra") and a tank top. And I'm tired of feeling apologetic about it all.

You know, lately it feels like I'm inundated with self-love blogs, photos, shared Facebook stories and inspirational Instagram accounts. Anyone that knows me understands that I 100% agree with loving your self--whether it be plus size, fit, pregnant, post-pregnancy, breast feeding, tall short...whatever! I am a HUGE fan of the postpartum body movement and 4th Trimester project.  Really. But where are the MOMS? I guess what I mean is...like me. Because I still look at these photos and think...I am such a wreck. How do I get there? HOW do I look good balancing my toddler on my hip while attempting to breast feed him upside down and cook chicken fajitas at the same time?

I hope everyone knows that what the Birth Without Fear and 4th Trimester Bodies does is incredible. I admire each woman and their story, pregnancy, birth and after. I just feel left out. I'm overly honest and my heart is permanently attached to my sleeve. I can't lie when I say that sometimes I gravitate more towards (and search out) moms who admit that motherhood is HARD sometimes.

I don't ever want anyone to think that I don't love being a mom. Or that I'm an uncontrollable slob (for those that haven't met me yet....heyyyyy). I do shower. I do put on mascara. I do other things besides just act as mom. But I also fully believe in being honest and banding together as friends and sharing the moments that aren't so awesome because it means we aren't alone. And sometimes it's hard NOT to feel alone, even when someone very small is very audibly screaming something nonsensical about boobs and ducks and dada and bye-bye in the background.

I just want to see some photos. Is that sick? Probably just a little bit. None of us want to have some asshole pop in and snap a photo as our rear is hanging fashionably out of the back of our yoga pants and we have lime yogurt smeared on our shirt and in our day-two-dry-shampooed-hair. None of us want to have someone catch us attempting to actually eat a fifth cookie secretly in the kitchen while leaving the vacuum running in the median just a little extra time because you KNOW your toddler won't walk past it and ask for another bite. No one wants to see that.

Except me.

 I want to see it. I at least want to know that I'm not the only one. Because no matter what, I think you're super gorgeous and doing a damn good job. Even after you've had an involuntary pee bath.

Amen and goodnight.

Mama Said

It was a long week. Still recovering from last weeks’ mysterious stomach bug that struck Josh and I both down, Henners had developed a cough, runny nose, new budding tooth and was sleeping even less than usual. The house was a wreck, we were on our second night of pizza for dinner, and after fighting through the normally calm bedtime routine for an hour, baby was finally asleep and I stumbled into the living room to try and fit in a few minutes of adult time. Half asleep on the couch, he motioned for me to come lay with him. As I was attempting to get comfortable, I tweaked an already tired back and in complete surrender, I exhaustedly flopped the working half of my body across Josh’s, and laid my head on his chest, feet dangling on the wooden floor. For 2.5 whole glorious minutes we just sat, and mumbled to each other about maybe trying to start a movie, when I heard a weird rustling coming from somewhere in our house. Alarmed, I sat up. “Did you hear that? Was that you?” Rustle. Rustle. “What in the living shit is that? Seriously. Where is it coming from??” Rustle. Very cautiously, I peeked my head into the hallway, only to be greeted by Henners, wide awake and dragging an empty Target bag by his ankle.  I don’t even know where he got the bag, or when he got out of bed, or why he was so silently stalking his way into the living room. OR why he was AWAKE. AGAIN. 

There are moments like this when I want to pull out every piece of my hair individually, just to keep from placing my child INSIDE said shopping bag and trying to return him in exchange for store credit. Moments when my energy is beyond used up and I would do just about anything for a hot bath, some tea (or whiskey, whatever) and an uninterrupted hour of nothingness. In these moments, I have to be honest with myself. I have to admit the frustration and the guilt that comes along with being so agitated at my tiny human who doesn’t know any better. He does not get that I am frustrated or why because he doesn’t even understand that, no, you cannot eat rocks. This is the life of a mother, and it is a glorious one. 

As a mom to a now walking, babbling one-year-old, I still feel so new. I mean, I am new. Every time I feel like I have finally figured something out, there’s a new challenge (Oh. You learned how to put things in the toilet—that’s cool). There are often moments when I feel completely confident, but then again, not really at all. I am so solid in the love that I have for my son, and that what I do is out of love, but I have learned (and continue to learn…daily) to relax just a little bit more and go with the flow. There will be victories and tears and cheerios stuck to the wall but always, always love.

With that being said, with learning comes lessons and with lessons come, I don’t know, values. One thing I know for sure is that you have to get over the fear of being judged. I thought this to myself the other day when I just wanted to poop alone. Seriously, come on kid. I had heard horror stories of never being able to use the restroom by yourself anymore once your baby can walk, but I scoffed. And then I was like. Oh. That myth is especially true. Neat. Wanting to just sit in the blissful silence of my bathroom, with the fan whirring turned into Henners screaming absolute-end-of-the-world bloody murder because I was trying to stop him from shoving handfuls of toilet paper in his mouth/up his nose/, wondering if the neighbor upstairs was hearing this exchange and thinking I might possibly be physically abusing my child.

You can’t worry about being judged when you’re in a store and your child starts to cry and you already look you were in a bar fight and your pants are falling down and your bangs look like a bad episode of Married With Children. You just can’t. You have to breathe. You look that judge-y cashier in the eye and smile, and bounce your child on your hip and dare them to judge you for buying only cookie dough, ice cream and Tylenol. 

You can never child proof your house enough, either. You. Can. Not. Possibly. Everything is a toy, every speck of dust is a tasty treat and any item that can be used as a weapon will be found and used to run through the house with; the only purpose being to cause mothers everywhere to have horrific visions of eye loss as you are chasing after them to retrieve said item. I always imagine explaining to the surgeon that no, I swear I picked up the Capri Sun straw from under the couch. It happened in a split second. And now he’ll have to start kindergarten with an eye patch. Awesome. 

You learn to swallow your pride as a mom. You are not perfect, and that is okay. 

It is so incredible to be proud of your child as well, as he learns to dress himself. It is also okay to cry a little internally when you realize that it is a pair of your giant underwear he’s now wearing as a sash. It is okay.

It is so amazing to be proud that your finicky eater has finally eaten an entire turkey hotdog and apple, only to discover that he has, in fact, shoved the entire contents of both into his diaper. It is okay. 

It is okay to panic when your son sneakily licks leftover ketchup off a plate, and comes running to you, dripping in what appears to be massive amounts of blood and you scream and start to dial 911. And then you smell tomatoes. It is okay. 

It is okay to spend an hour putting him to bed and in sneaking away, trip over your own feet and wake him with the sound of your own head making contact with the wall. It is okay.

It is okay to be sad sometimes, feel defeated, feel elated, be crabby, be crazy or just not know the answers. To all the mothers out there, I love you so deeply, no matter what choices you make. I am blessed with a diverse group of mothers in my life who constantly reassure me and lift me up. I am thrilled to know so many women who are no-holds-barred and open and honest about the struggles and joys of being a mom. I am glad we can laugh together. I am glad that together, we do not judge me for eating a donut (what?). 

Happy Mother’s Day in advance to so many beautiful, unique, wonderful, brave moms. You are all glamorous and sexy even when you don’t feel like it. I hope you get to poop alone on your special day. 

Keeping it real as always, until next time.

-Becca

The First Year

There is a time in my life I can recall that doesn’t involve diapers or breast milk or tiny socks that hide in every piece of laundry I fold. There is a time when I used to sleep whenever I wanted and spent 15 minutes per eye perfecting liner and never ever have to share bites of food. I didn’t have stains and flyaway hair and unpainted toenails sometimes. Now I am a mother and I’ll never understand how anyone can use the word “just” in relation to that role. Mommy is the most significant and challenging title I’ll ever hold. I am so proud every day, so humbled and so full of complete and utter wonderment for the life that has so delicately been placed in my not-always-so-capable hands. As we approach the year mark, I’m in disbelief how time has literally flown in the blink of an eye, a wisp of hair, a tooth, a few tottering steps  and so much laughter. You are my most precious and incredible boy, my son and my world.

I find myself replaying the time before you arrived over and over and reliving the moments of eagerness and trepidation. Sometimes I would sit alone on the floor, surrounded by your clothes--completely distracted from the project at hand. I was probably deep in the throes of organizing and reorganizing (and reorganizing) your bibs, your blankets, your funny little shoes and counting diapers to make sure we had enough. I would be overthrown by a kick or movement from you, and stop in that moment to rub my huge belly, cradle it and tell you it was okay. Sometimes I cried—I was more fearful than I ever let on. I didn’t know if I would be a good mom. I didn’t know if you would like me. I needed you out so I could count your fingers and your toes and see what color your eyes were. I needed you curled up on my chest so that I could breathe you in, and you could reassure me just as much as I would reassure you that everything was going to be just fine. Those quiet moments, both in joy and doubt, will always stand out in my memory. My pregnancy with you made me the most vulnerable I have ever been yet I also felt beautiful and confident in my new sense of self. There is never a doubt in my mind that you were (and still are) my wee hero. I am so grateful you shook my world up.  

And then you were here. I’d never seen anything so awesome ever. Never met someone for the first time that I loved so much. Everyone said you were such a big, healthy baby, but I’d never seen anything so fragile and small. You fit into my arms like you were molded for them.  Those first few hours and days were wonderful and so special. I don’t remember if I slept much, but I do know I couldn’t stop looking at you. All my worries washed away.

This year has been full of challenges and victories. I’ve changed close to 1.76 million diapers (or so it feels like), washed 9,000 loads of clothes, gone through at least 25 pairs of yoga pants, eaten 150,000 cookies and slept a grand total of 40 hours (give or take). I’ve never regretted a single moment of nursing you this long, long wakeful nights or skipping a shower to have more play time. I’ve never regretted giving up evenings out for evenings in and unfinished movies and dirty dishes. I’ll never regret sharing my bed with you; I might have missed your sly smiles when you wake me up, or the fact that you have to hold my hand (or daddy’s) some nights in order to fall asleep. I will never forget the days when everything is frustrating for me, because I am constantly adapting. My patience has grown tenfold, along with my courage and willpower. I will never regret soaking up these brief instances when you still need me the most.  These moments are fleeting, and having a child is surely why people believe in time warps. How is it that you already have grown so much? 

You are funny, and smart, and sometimes you get the giggles so bad that you fall over. You have the most amazing laugh and often times I hear you snort or twitter at your own expense. You are sensitive and loving and it is never a bad time for snuggles or a hug. You love kisses  and give them freely (although quite sloppily and open-mouthed) and biting toes (either your own or someone else’s) is the newest craze for you. You love your daddy more than anyone could possibly love someone and you cannot get enough of him. You are walking, and incredibly proud of yourself with each new thing you accomplish. You love cucumbers, blueberries, bananas, yogurt, crackers, cheese, lettuce, toilet paper and pieces of the carpet. You have an obsession with spoons. Yo Gabba Gabba, DJ Lance in particular, is most definitely your first real “like”, unless you count iPhone cords and the plunger in the bathroom. You’ve learned “Dada”, and although you went through a period of time where you called me “Bob”, I know we’ll eventually get to “Mom”. You have three teeth (your top ones and one on the bottom) and another on the way. You are rarely in a bad mood even after zero sleep. You are more wonderful that I ever could have dreamt about and even as I write this, you are changing in unimaginable ways. 

With your big day rapidly approaching, I felt I must write this entry a little bit early. I fear that the birthday chaos would sweep me away, and I would miss my opportunity to sit quietly and reflect on the past year that has been nothing short of breathtaking.

Although I often yearn for the ability to stop you from growing so fast, I cannot wait to watch you expand and learn and study the world around you. I will be by your side until you do not need me there anymore but know; I will always be waiting if you need me. 

I love you so much. 

“I’ll love you forever

 I’ll like you for always

 As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

    -Robert Munsch, Love You Forever