New Addition

In the first picture of me holding my child, I’m wincing. I’m not making a face that most women would show off to friends. I am in utter shock-maybe because I was hoping the weight would leave with him (it did not) or maybe because my mother was holding my hand while snapping away shots of my son crowning because “You’ll want these pictures as memories to look back on.” No, no one wants these pictures to look back on…

When my son entered the world, and the nurses asked if I would like him placed on my chest, I hesitated. My mom was in the room. My husband. I panicked and then I said yes. I had told my husband prior to delivery, half jokingly, half serious (alright, more serious than joking) that I would prefer seeing our child cleansed and swaddled prior to holding him-maybe in a cute outfit, maybe in something matchy or designer, cute shades?

That changed.   

I remember my friend telling me that as soon as I saw my child, it would be like looking into a mirror- I would be seeing myself. I would be lost in a sea of overwhelming love. That wasn’t how I felt. I was looking at a child 10 shades lighter than me (thank you, Irish husband). I had also toyed with the notion of doing what the celebs do and leaving with some lipo, a boob job, and a new ass- I hadn’t fully clinched that deal at that point and was nervous about that too (never did pan out).

When we left the hospital days later, my husband dutifully wheeling me out, child in arms, balloons and flowers in the car, it hit me, “They’re letting us leave with him? What the hell will we do now? Which nurse comes home with us?!” Terror seized me.

I had read every baby book in preparation for having my son. I had interviewed trusted women in my life- several of whom expressed genuine concern with the idea of me rearing a child (appreciated). The nursery was ready. I had prepared our dog by having daily chats with him about the upcoming addition to our household and what would be expected of him. This seemed to me to be sufficient.

But…

How do you measure being a good mother? How would I know if what I was doing now would somehow make my child a better person? Or, at least not screw him up royally for the rest of his life, resulting in thousands in therapy.

I have learned since having my son to have a sense of humor. Apparently most toys when thrown in the toilet can be rescued if reached quickly, dog bones aren’t really that bad for kids, going to work with vomit down your back that is not yours from the night before is not that bad, working in a daily shower for yourself is a win.

Am I a good mother and do I have this figured out? No. I hate kids’ shows, I can’t stand children’s music. I can’t even watch Kids Week on Jeopardy. But, I’m happy he’s here. He’s got a great sense of humor and he dances just like me. Which we’re working on.

So, to vent my frustrations and buy some time in between spying on him while he learns to sleep in his toddler bed, rather than get up and rearrange the place, I thought I’d blog, not just about parenting, but daily things most people deal with. Enjoy my humble thoughts and opinions.