Cliche's and Confessions

I came in here, the room we call our “office” with the sole intention of writing something incredibly witty. I had it all planned out, content, body and everything… I sat down, and promptly forgot every last shred of interesting tidbit I had left rattling around in my brain. I find myself doing that on a regular basis as of late.

I have a legitimate excuse. You see, this motherhood deal is all consuming—every part of me is eaten alive by this beast that is fulfilled only by the smile of my baby girl. I have never pined so hard for a gummy grin, nor have I prayed that a long awaited poop will come her way after a horrifying day of constipation. You see, poopy relief waits in the twilight darkness of her days, which end (fortunately for me) promptly at 7:00 PM.

My little girl has the most amazing grin, capable of pulling sunshine out of the darker more rainy days we’ve been experiencing around this lovely part of Southern Georgia. (How cliché do I sound now?). Regardless, of overused phrases and metaphors, I find myself grinning from ear to ear like a bumbling idiot every time she cracks a smile following a long awaited fart; praying for the day when her stomach accepts that she will be receiving formula rather than breast milk.

At times I find myself hiding in the closet of evil—more formally known as the “breast-fed baby weaning locale” asking myself “why it is that I have not endured more days of aggravation, dairy deprivation, and screaming babies”—for I am surely mistaken that this course of action is correct, no? The weaning course I mean, not the hiding in the closet course.

This being a mom stuff, well, I’ll just leave it at that—it’s being a mom and I can’t even begin to describe how it has affected me. Many mornings have come, at 3:00 AM, beginning with a bang, er, a cry in the night, and I can’t stop myself from racing into her room to pick her up and tell her that she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen grace this earth. I want to hang out with her; be by her side all the time; always be next to my infant daughter. I get excited when she supports herself on her own two feet—and laugh when her eyes twinkle because she’s proud of the fact that she can control her neck enough to look me in the eye. Never did I think that my life would be dictated by “milestones,” but I could not be happier that it is.

I leave myself post-it notes all over my computer screen, “blog ideas,” things I know were important for me to share, yet I never find time to actually sit down and compose what I’m turning over in my mind. Normally, these “revelations” or ideas (on a much less grand scale, strike me in the most inopportune of times—normally when I’m being a stable bottle support whilst watching “Desperate Housewives.” Yes, pathetic, I know, but I swear, those shows are made for people literally stuck to their chairs, and well, my three month old has shown me that for a half an hour here and there throughout the day, I am quite literally—stuck to my chair come feeding time.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world, although at times, sitting around watching other rich and “desperate” housewives reminds me of the fact that I am indeed wasting valuable time in a comfy recliner… Time I could be spending pretending that my house is a movie set complete with a maid and live in chef to clean up and cook for me. Time I should be using to push a vacuum and do a load of laundry or two. Although, to hear my husband tell it, I’ve got it rough for I’m on the front lines of Ocean. These duties include, but are not limited to: Dealing with her crying for hours on end for reasons unknown. Truth be told—I wouldn’t trade my job for anyone’s, because—holding true to character and cliché, no one can do a better job than I can raising my daughter, even though I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and am flying by the seat of my pants—but hey, we can keep that between the two of us.