My friend told me last week about someone she knows that ran a half marathon nine weeks after giving birth. I'll let that sink in. Nine weeks. 9. As in 63 days. Nine weeks after I gave birth, I believe I spent a majority of my time fantasizing about running my car into a pole to escape Bug's non-stop crying. Or slitting my wrists. Or hiring a nanny. Whichever it was, I was definitely NOT out training to run 13.1 freaking miles. Even now, almost 8 months later, the only time I use the word "run" in a sentence pertaining to me is the following:
"I'm going to run to Target"
"Can we run the kids by your mom's for a few hours?"
"If you guys don't put a cork in it, I swear to God, Mommy's going to run away and never come back."
Etc, etc. And of course I don't mean it literally. My ass isn't running anywhere. I'd probably vapor lock. Ya know, more power to that chick, but come on. Quit making normal mamas look bad. On a daily basis, I cook, clean, do laundry, all the grocery shopping and errand running (there's that damn word again), change diapers, bathe kids, haven't slept in years and some nameless faceless stranger I don't know made me feel lazy. Bitch.
How about we celebrate the REAL accomplishments of a mother of a 9 week old? You washed your hair today? High five!! You got out of your pajamas before noon? Or at all? You go, girl! You put on makeup? Holy shit, you're Super Mom!!
I've consoled myself with the certainty she is one of Those Mothers. You know the type. The my-child-doesn't-eat-sugar-or-white-starch-I-make-my-own-organic-babyfood-what-do-you-mean-you-don't-breastfeed-named-my-kid-something-pretentious-like-Buffy type. I bet she enjoyed being pregnant too. Loved every minute of it. I bet she didn't break a sweat during labor. I bet she didn't use any pain meds. I bet she does baby yoga and wears her kid around in one of those stupid looking papoose things I can't figure out how to use. I bet she only uses organic biodegradable recycled diapers and wipes her kid's ass with aloe vera leaves. I bet she blogs about how every minute of her newborn's life is joyous, a blessing, and that the little angel never cries, is the happiest infant she's known (and the most gorgeous of course), and that while she's gone from a size 0 to a size 2, she's loving her new post-baby body. Hey lady - eff you.
With Bug, I hated the last ten weeks of pregnancy. Hated them. Counted down the days until that glorious due date. Bawled. Frequently. Told DH I couldn't do it. Told my OB I couldn't do it. Prayed that I would go into labor at 37 weeks once he was fully cooked. Tried to bribe the aforementioned OB to induce me once I hit that mark. Did convince him to induce me a week early.
I went days without washing my hair after he was born. Days. Plural. I think the record was 5.
I once spent 6 days in the same pajamas.
I went most days on 2 hours of sleep.
He cried non-stop; I cried right back.
I ate lots and lots of Reese's PB cups out of stress.
I didn't lose the ten pounds I'd gained during pregnancy, I gained ten more.
The thought crossed my mind (more than once) that if I killed DH, I could use insurance money to pay for a nanny. It wasn't like he helped me anyways.
I don't boil my baby's bottles.
I give him formula.
I don't use nursery water, I use plain ol' - GASP - tap water.
I feed him babyfood straight out of a jar. Sometimes it's generic.
I use Pampers. Many, many, many Pampers. Between the stench of his poop and my purchasing those disposable diapers, together we are destroying the Earth. Alert Al Gore.
I don't wear my baby. I tried it once and it sucked. It was hot and uncomfortable and hurt my back.
Sometimes when he cries and I need to unload the dishwasher, I turn Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on for him and he stops. That's right - my baby watches TV.
But here's the thing - we're okay. Both of us. I may not be sprinting across any finish lines any time soon, but the fact that I make it through each day unscathed, with happy and healthy kids is more than enough for me.