March 18, 2016
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My husband and I were talking last night about how we became accustomed to the fairly profound change of having a young child; well, I was speaking of the transformation. My husband was partially lamenting about not having time for himself any longer once he enters our homestead. A part of me shares that lament, but I’ve been at home with my soon-to-be two-year-old so long that much of the independence I gave up is a very distant memory. I also have the benefit of the end of my second pregnancy to haze any productive use of my nostalgia.
It isn’t so much that my husband was complaining; most of the facets of our son’s loud plod through his life are things he loves and embraces, giving purpose and unique happiness to his existence. But, there is the constancy of care and attention that can drain as much as it bolsters.
As I mentioned, I’m used to it. There are very few moments that are solely my own. Sure, I have the daily nap time…assuming my kid doesn’t decide to take Mommy’s bad day and increase it ten-fold by forfeiting this one meager break that cascades into an avalanche of awesomeness until it is late enough to bid him goodnight. But, when all goes as “planned,” I amaze myself with how much my life’s changed, and how little I think back to the way it was. This was not the case during the first year. Maybe I’ve finally found myself along the way, or at least enough of myself to feel comfortable with uncertainty.
While I most definitely appreciate my Saturday free time, it occurred to me during the conversation that my Saturdays don’t hold the same desperation they did in the beginning. I find myself not having the dramatic personality transformation after that single extended break.
The Warrior Queen may be born in as little as three weeks, and I wonder what it will be like, aside from the predictable sleep deprivation and all the spousal and life hatred that brings. Little Man was my first for so many things, but my daughter will be my first with me as a person as well as Mommy.