Belle with her baby in a wrap. (She wanted my Moby Wrap, but it was a little too big.)
So I've been thinking about a comment left on one of my posts by a former co-worker. And I hope she doesn't mind that I quote it in part. She mentioned that she's due (with her first) in October and thanked me for my refreshing take on the reality of parenthood, "not just the fairy tale." I can't stop thinking about the comment really. Because I want her to know something:
This reality is my fairy tale. Even the exhausting, spit-up covered moments. Yesterday, I got peed, pooed, and projectile vomited on. By the time Jess got home, I reeked like sour milk and my eyelashes were glued together by sweat. But it's what I dreamed of for so long, and there is nothing I'd rather be doing. I love my babies more than anything. I love my days with them, even when I can barely prop my eyelids open, even when I'm covered in one or both of their bodily fluids. I turned thirty today. The big three oh. And the only thing I see sad about turning thirty is that I spent so much of those years without my girls (and my husband, who also happens to be that best friend you just can't live without). They are so precious, and I feel so blessed to be a part of their lives. I'm the lucky one.
Lou Lou and tummy time.
I think it's natural to expect or want something dreamy when you're pregnant. But the reality is it's usually pretty hard, even when you have really nice babies. Because suddenly your heart leaves you. And it starts walking around in a tiny potty training body. Or you'll see it in an even tinier infant body that depends on you for everything. And while it is most definitely difficult, it's also incredibly beautiful. I've never been more fulfilled than I am now. My joy has never been more full than it is when I see my babies succeed at something, when tiny infant eyes lock with mine, when I can bury my face in the smell of new baby or in a head full of never ending curls. My point is, if you allow it to be, it is a fairy tale. It's one that I never want to end really. (And the reason why I pretend that my sweet babies will never grow beyond four years old and often consider homeschooling as a not socially-backward option.)