This week was challenging.
I feel stretched thin right now, trying to do right by you and your sister and still do the bare minimum of things around the house so we can all continue to eat and not suffocate under the weight of a gigantic pile of laundry.
Some days I can do more than the bare minimum, and I’m really proud of that. And other days I feel like my greatest accomplishment was feeding your sister something slightly more nutritious than an entire loaf of zucchini bread for lunch.
For you, I have all the grace in the world. I remind myself that you’re so little, that your cries mean you need something, and that just because it takes you an entire hour to fall back asleep at night after you nurse doesn’t mean you’re purposefully trying to kill me from sleep deprivation (you’re not, right?).
But for myself? Not so much.
I vacillate between feeling AWESOME RAWR I GOT THIS and wanting to melt into the floor in a sad, drippy puddle of inadequacy. I feel like I am in no way qualified to do this, and how on Earth could the hospital have sent me home with another kid without making me take some sort of aptitude test first?
I’ve only been doing this mom-of-two gig for three weeks, so OF COURSE I don’t have a handle on everything right now. Some things are slipping through the cracks and people will probably cry while I work on getting this sorted out (spoiler alert: sometimes it’s me).
So my mission for next week, and the week after, and on and on, is to be more forgiving of myself. All things considered, I think I’m a solidly ok mom. Yeah, I’m going to make mistakes. LOTS of them.
(Sorry in advance.)
But we’ll figure this out together, ok? All of us. Because we’re in this for the long haul, kiddo. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.