Motherhood is madness. A wave of bursting joy, a blink and it turns to icy fear in the pit of my stomach, another tick of the clock and it's exasperation and a need for space, I lock eyes, a smile appears and I am overwhelmed by sheer love radiant and unfiltered. Transcendent. Painful. Madness.
My emotions are dramatic, and possibly drunk. Meanwhile, my brain is taking menial tasks and making them edge-of-your-seat thrillers, like driving over a bridge: "THINK QUICK! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHEN THIS BRIDGE COLLAPSES INTO A FREEZING, FAST FLOWING RIVER WHILE YOU'RE DRIVING AROUND YOUR BABY INFANT? DO YOU EVEN STILL KNOW HOW TO SWIM?!" Or sleeping that first full 6 hours after 11 months of getting up 3-4 times a night: "WAKE UP! YOU'VE SLEPT TOO LONG. CHECK THE BABY MONITOR NOW. NOW. NOW. YOU THOUGHT IT WAS TOO HOT TO PUT PANTS ON HIM BECAUSE IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A GAZILLION DEGREES BUT WHAT IF YOU WERE WRONG AND HE FROZE TO DEATH. GET UP!!!!"
Everyday is a new challenge in trying to understand/express/stifle my own thoughts and emotions. I'm not afraid to say it - it's been a long goddamn year. Everyone is all, "oh I can't believe he's one! Time goes so fast!" "oh, they grow up too fast, don't they?" "You'll blink and you'll miss it." I think that is all true, except for the first year. I have felt every hour, nay, every minute of this year. Exhaustion comes with excitement as it comes with anxiety, and the constant fatigue has made the days long and the nights longer. I feel my energy returning, though [she writes after two cups of coffee and a nap], and I think I'll have a handle on myself soon. Hopefully well enough so I can be one of the masses telling other bedraggled mothers of newborns that time flies and I can't believe how fast it all goes.
Also, I've cried multiple times grieving in solidarity with future Shannon who won't know when it was the last time she kissed her sons baby feet. That's a little crazy isn't it? His cheeks will always be mine to smooch, his hair (if he ever grows any) I will tussle, his broad shoulders I will hug whether he's 4 or 67- but those precious, chubby baby feet that he thrusts so endearingly towards my face to kiss and eat his toes, those are his and I will never get them back. I just needed to put it out there that I will sorely miss these baby feet.