Some people warned me about this thing called "the baby blues." When it was mentioned, I would roll my eyes and say "yeah, yeah, yeah... if I can make it through high school, the basic standard eating disorder that any girl in America suffers between ages 12- 23, working at Quiznos for 5 years, publishing a thesis, and 10 months of pregnancy, I can deal with a baby." Wrong.
The baby blues are real, and I had them (past tense used cautiously). Here is a list of things that prove my feet are definitely not as soft as they used to be:
1. The first 3 days after I delivered my baby I was high on morphine because I had an emergency c-section (and I didn't even get special security glass window in my room).
2. I didn't sleep for 5 days after my delivery because every time I would drift off, I'd have a nightmare that I was still in surgery.
3. Less scary, all I can bring myself to eat is anything processed or dark chocolate.
4. My poor husband has walked into every room in our house, including the bathroom, to find me on the floor crying, babbling something like "I'm trying my best."
5. I threw a jug of cranberry juice at the wall.
6. I called my doctor 6 times asking for birth control before I finally got my RX fixxx.
7. The other day my daughter screamed her way through the line we stood in at the bank and when we finally got help, I was bending over trying to force sugary gas drops into her mouth and didn't realize that about half of my lacy nursing bra was hanging out (yeah I said lacy -- take that Beyonce).
8. I met my dear friend Amber for coffee the other day and she walked into starbucks to find me wearing my pajama top, acid-wash jeans, covered in spit up with sweaty hair and a screaming baby whose tank top was too small and whose chubby, sweaty little belly stuck out in public. I was also carrying a hot pink and zebra print diaper bag. She laughed at me for a little bit.
... All of that to say, I am moving to Cleveland next week. My parents and grandparents live there. I hope I can sneak off for a few hours to go scrub my feet.
This picture is proof that despite the new sounds and smells that have invaded our home, I freakin' LOVE my daughter. I mean love love love like I've never loved.