I know.

I know, I know, I know.

I go and post a picture of our brand spankin’ new newborn and then I skip “blog-town” for 2 weeks and leave you all hanging.

Although, I think I have a pretty good excuse and it’s called nursing every two hours and changing poopy diapers in between.  Just try and yell at me, damnit.  I’ll hurl a mustard-seedy poopy diaper at you.

Who would think an 8 pound little person would rule the roost around here, but it’s the reality.  We’re all sleep-deprived, the dishes are constant, the diapers are…also constant.  We’re very happy around these parts, but also living in a state of zombie-like “just get through the day”-ness.

For those of you who are interested, here’s the quick timeline of events regarding my labor.

It’s Wednesday night.  The bathroom remodel is 95% done, but needs primer, paint and a pesky little thing like a toilet.  My father-in-law stops by with my mother-in-law right as I start having small contractions.  I’m in no mood to put up with more remodeling and all I want to do is get in the shower, so we ask them politely if the bathroom can wait until tomorrow.

I get in the shower.  Still feel contractions.  Decide I’m crazy and there’s no way I’m in labor.  Because.  Yeah.  That’s crazy talk.

Start cursing the fact that I ate a double cheeseburger for dinner.

Get out of the shower and decide to eat a big bowl of cereal.  Because nothing gets rid of a sick-feeling stomach like compounding more food on top of a double cheeseburger.

I’m a moron, by the way.

Start watching So You Think You Can Dance because it’s my favorite show eveeeer and it’ll totally help these silly contractions go away by watching Twitch doing some hip-hop.

Contractions don’t go away, but they’re not consistent.

Finally talk myself into calling my OB’s hotline, as stupid as I feel because DUH – I’M NOT IN LABOR!

They tell me to keep timing the contractions, but that they’ll call ahead to the birth center and to go if they get closer.

I don’t have a stopwatch so I’m using the baby timer for feedings and find it’s probably not the most accurate way to time contractions.

Start packing the rest of the hospital bag, while my husband runs around the house like a mad man at one o’clock in the morning.  Before we left he was checking work email.  Priorities, people…

Get to the on-ramp of the highway and I almost have him turn around because…SERIOUSLY.  NOT IN LABOR!

Get to hospital.  Stay overnight for monitoring.  Next morning they tell me I’m in labor.

Huh.

The rest is pretty straight forward.  My labor was almost scarily easy, which I think Tony worries about for the possibility of numerous future children.  At about 4 centimeters I had an epidural, which I immediately hated because my anxiety-ridden self could not handle not being able to feel and move my legs.  Each time I thought too much about it I would start getting a panic attack.  I finally asked them to turn down the epidural, but by the time it finally started to wear off, I was ready to push.

Which leads me to the funny part of the story.  Tony had decided to go home for an hour to check on his dad’s progress  in the bathroom.  About an hour later I called him and told him I was at “8 centimeters, holy shit, get back here!”

10 minutes later he strolls through the door, right as the nurse is saying, “You’re at 10, time to push.”

I had the worst heartburn on the planet as I was pushing so I got ‘er done within 45 minutes.  I desperately wanted a Sprite, don’t ask me why.  But that was my motivation.  And I made sure they had a Sprite in my hand before he was 5 minutes old.

He was born at 4:16 p.m. looking like a little swollen prize-fighter.  I probably looked about the same.

It’s crazy the emotions you feel right away.  For two days I was on a permanent high, but I could tell my hormones were officially whack-a-doo when I started dreading getting visitors and wishing people would call before stopping in.  By day 3, when it was time to leave the hospital, I was a big sobbing mess of feelings.  Here I was – so happy to have my son, but so incredibly overwhelmed by the sheer thought of the responsibility and permanence of it all.

As soon as I got home, I set him in his crib, fell to the floor and started sobbing.  Tony walked in and asked what was wrong.  I told him I had absolutely no idea.

Baby blues suck, ya’ll.

Things have gotten better with the baby blues, but I still feel overwhelmed by the day-to-day things.  Going to the grocery store, which used to be as easy as hopping in the car and driving down the road, feels like a big milestone that I’m not quite sure I want to undertake just yet.  What if he cries?  What if I can’t figure out how to put the car seat on the cart?  How do I time it just right so he will be between feedings?

The day I was feeling my lowest – going on no sleep for days and very little food because I had no appetite – I saw a blog post pop up in my old emails, written by “Dear #$&!% Baby”.  It was called Pregnancy vs. Motherhood – Honestly..  Everything the author was feeling was exactly how I was feeling.  But, as she states in the preface, it gets better.  There’s light at the end of the tunnel.  It helped me get through a few dark days knowing these feelings are only fleeting.

And sure enough, each day I feel more and more like my old self.  I’m still going on little sleep and the house is still a mess.  My boobs always hurt and small tasks still feel overwhelming.  I haven’t cooked an actual homemade meal since he was born, but as I tackle more things and accept more help from friends and family, it gets easier.

And then I look at this face and remember that it’s incredibly worth it.

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