We finally got some professional family photographs taken last weekend. Truthfully, I’d been putting this off over and over again because I wanted to wait until I’d lost the baby weight after having #2 so that I could look somewhat presentable in these photos and not have to look back, 5 or 10 years later, and cringe at myself.
But recently, a light switched on in my head and made me think to myself: you know what? I’m done waiting to lose weight.
I’m done.
Last night, as I lay in bed eating gummi bears while watching Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares, exhausted beyond belief and wondering when Tiny Boss #2 would wake up next for a feed, I had to remind myself: this, too, shall pass.
There are a lot of things I forgot about having a newborn.
Those first few weeks can truly be the most exhausting, the most challenging, the most painful and the most terrifying as you think to yourself how your world has been turned on its head and will never be the same again.
Repeat after me, mama: this, too, shall pass.
Last night, I spent two hours solely dedicated to trying to settle my fussy 20-day-old, while her father got her almost two-year-old sister ready for bed. I envied his task a little; its predictability, its dependable routine, its lack of screams and cries, and lack of moments of self-doubt and desperation. Those moments of “what do you want me to do?!” as you try and figure out what this little person needs from you. Continue reading
Ah, those final weeks of pregnancy.
For me, it has come to those final days. I don’t think time has ever gone by so. slowly.
Mama’s getting tired.
And cranky.
And just – very – sarcastic. More sarcastic than usual. I know. It’s not pretty.
I’m complaining a lot; to the point that I’m starting to irritate myself with the extent of that complaining. But being the entitled preggo that I am, I’m not going to dwell for too long on how much this is probably irritating those around me. I’m the one with a seemingly giant baby growing in my abdomen (my doctor continues to be astounded at the rate at which this baby is growing), therefore I shall continue to complain. And make those horrendously unattractive grunts when I stoop down to pick something up. And lay on the couch like a beached whale at any given opportunity.
This well-meaning query came from my obstetrician at my 32-week check-up about a week and a half ago, upon completing her estimation that I was carrying an {already!} 2.2kg baby.
She’s a lovely lady, and I like her a lot. But girlfriend is not afraid to be blunt. She’s obviously dealt with enough pregnant women in her long and illustrious career such that she is no longer threatened by the potential wrath of a gigantic woman incubating another, apparently gigantic, baby human, who has effectively just been called fat. Continue reading
The countdown is on. We have about six weeks until baby #2’s expected arrival.
Of course, I’m ridiculously excited to meet this new little person, but so much of it is still surreal. The fact that a second pregnancy goes by so much faster than the first makes it difficult for the whole thing to sink in properly. Every day, it registers a tiny bit more that we’re headed to Newbornville very, very soon.
And with each passing day, all I can do is feel my heart break a little bit more for Tuna. Continue reading
Pregnant mothers of more than one: you know how when you get the rare chance to go somewhere sans your offspring outside the womb, you get all those sweet, knowing looks from people who think this is your first pregnancy? I’ve been getting those a lot lately. It’s almost a look of reverence. Of respect. But not without a hint of “oh…sweetie. She has no idea what’s coming!” But we know, sunshine. Boy, do we know.
The sharper belly observers will very quickly realise that this ain’t my first rodeo. Here are five surefire ways to know, without a quiver of doubt in your heart, that this mama has done it before.
I experienced two incidents over the past week which have made me really think about this question.
Gather round, my friends, and let me tell you a little story about an exhausted pregnant woman with an overtired toddler who just wanted to get the hell out of the supermarket.
You’ve been there, right? You’d rather be doing a billion other unpleasant things than stand there any longer while your kid screams at you for more sushi (which you’ve had the audacity to open before paying), you’re carrying a basket which was only meant to contain a couple of lightweight items but now makes it look like you’re stockpiling for Y2K all over again, and your womb-mate is creating all kinds of crazy havoc up in your pelvic floor muscles.
Get me out of here. Please.
I frantically scan the checkout aisles for the one that, in my estimation, will end this torture the quickest. Ah! There it is, almost too bright for me to look at directly due to what I perceive as a glow of hope surrounding it. A moderately empty, moving checkout line. I hauled the stroller with its yelling, hungry occupant and my gigantic belly over to that blessed lane as quickly as possible. Continue reading
It’s been a big week for Tuna.
She’s exactly 19.5 months old today, which for me, is uncomfortably close to the toddler twenties. I feel like once they hit 20 months, they’re pretty much two-year-olds, which means they’re pretty much starting school and pretty much about to pack their luggage to go off to university. Big leap, but hey. A mother’s mind will go where it goes.
I’m starting to understand why some people still refer to their three-year-olds as their “42-month-olds”. There is something still cute and baby-like about having the word “month” in your age. But as much as I am loath to admit it, our days of referring to Tuna’s age in months are numbered. We are headed very much into big girl territory. Continue reading
I’ve always been a pro-efficiency kinda gal.
The type that walks quickly even when there’s no rush to get anywhere. My darling husband A always makes fun of the fact that I’m “racing” him whenever we’re out for a walk, while I feel like I’m merely sauntering at a leisurely pace. I like ordering my Starbucks coffee by specifying every possible variable I would like in order to minimise the number of questions the barista has to ask me – I even stipulate whether or not I require a receipt. I will group all of my grocery items according to category on the conveyor belt so that the checkout operator can get them packed properly quick fast. So essentially, it would seem apparent that I also like imposing my efficiency on others.
Being accompanied by a toddler for approximately 97% of your errands does not make for an efficient use of time. This staggering truth horrified me upon becoming a new mother. Continue reading
You never really fully appreciate the extent of your toddler’s in-sleep acrobatics until you get the joy of sharing a bed with them.
Don’t get me wrong – I have absolutely nothing against co-sleeping. I’ve just come to terms with the fact that for all my pro-breastfeeding, pro-babywearing tendencies, I simply can’t do it. I’ve tried. And speaking truthfully, my daughter coerces me into it from time to time because she has very cleverly figured out that I value a {below-par} night’s sleep above the desire to {be awake at 4am and} teach her to consistently sleep in her own bed.
Maybe I just don’t like intermittently getting kicked in the face as much as the next guy. Sure, it keeps you on your toes and sharpens your ”unagi” (à la Ross from that episode of Friends), but getting a soft little squishy foot with quite a lot of force behind it, in your eye more than once a night, doesn’t allow for the most restful sleep. Continue reading
