It’s really not the beginning. This blog. I grew up in the 80s, and I distinctly remember blogs being called journals or diaries and they were most certainly not public. Then again I learned to type on an actual typewriter.
It’s tempting to speak as if I have an audience but I don’t… And I like that for right now. I plan on being transparent. #NoMakeup for this blog. In fact this whole introduction is completely boring and uninsiteful. Why isn’t that a word? Come on! Uninsiteful isn’t a word? Damn technology.
I’m a mom. Almost 5, 2 ½, and 4 mo. Those are the ages of my little gremlins. My sweet sweet gremlins. Does it define me? Is it WHO I am? Frick ya, do you have kids? It’s flipping consuming.
I want to be a midwife. I love birth. I love babies. The cute and the messy parts of both. All three of my kids popped out in water and not in a hospital. I’m sooooo brave. Nope, nope noooooo not brave… I’m scared of hospitals and the awfulness of having a baby on my back because the hippy portion of my brain refuses to have an epidural.
Ok so here we are… The kids are hungry but temporarily distracted by the Octonauts. I woke at 6:30 with the baby, but have had only had 2 cookies and 2 cups of coffee. Hippy-me made sure to drink at least a whole glass of water first thing this morning. The baby is whining in her activity saucer. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, I haven’t showered in 2 days. (Military baths are a must sometimes). For the last 4 days I’ve wanted someone to come save me. Not from my kids, not from my life… Just please someone come watch them for 3 days while I lie in a hotel with room service and unlimited massages. I won’t survive without it! (And then I wake up every day and do this mom thing again and again). You survive and sometimes thrive cuz you just do. It’s called love-fuel.
My hubby works 2 weeks on 2 weeks off about 8 hrs from our home. So I’m a single mom for half of the year. I solute you single moms. You are badasses. IT’S HARD. It’s flipping hard. It’s almost impossible and LADEN with mom-guilt and exhaustion. Why would anyone volunteer to do this job and not get paid!?! Money wouldn’t be enough that’s why! The payment is in tears, boob milk, giggles, floor-poops, somersault kicks to the head, and hugs. And vomit. Lots of vomit.
So here I go, into this day. What’s on the agenda? My 4 year old learned to moon me yesterday. So there’s that. Also I just wiped my 2 ½-year-old’s bottom with one hand and held my plate of breakfast in the other. Hey at least he’s potty trained… Let the adventure begin…errr… continue!