I try carrots; I try broth, chicken; spoonfuls of nut butters; toast; potatoes; beets. It doesn't matter. Every morning, I dry heave or throw up. There is only one cure: the end of this trimester.
I felt like going back to work meant the end of my time being my daughter's mom. In that way, it felt like her grandparents were going to become her new parents and I'd be chopped liver.
I will continue to cheer at each milestone we hit—when he learns to tie his shoes, when he masters how to make breakfast, when he starts to sleep in instead of waking up, begging us to play.
I have this simple message to pass along: You aren't an invincible superhero. You are something much more dazzling, tender, terrifying, and awe-inspiring. You are a human doing one of the most human things of all. Taking care of another.
I count my blessings because the hardships and the successes that come from creating little humans make me a better person. I take less for granted. I know that things are not meant to be perfect. Without the heartache, how would I feel the true happiness that comes with raising kids?
I feel like the woman I was before I became a mother is someone I am familiar with, but I don't know her all that well—she's more like an acquaintance. Honestly, I have to think really hard to remember what it was like to be her.
Some of us are invigorated by the day-to-day of motherhood. And some of us need something outside of motherhood to keep that cup full enough to be able to pour out all that our family needs to thrive.
Their childhood will move to their teenagehood and then to adulthood, and there won't be tiny little dino jams in the laundry or princess dresses that don't fit anymore. How is it possible for these small, precious pieces of cloth to seemingly rip my heart out of my chest?
There's nothing wrong with me because I'm scared sometimes and I make mistakes in parenting, wife-ing and life-ing. I am human; you are human; we are flawed and imperfect.
