A few days ago, my toddler hit my infant in the head with a toy he received as a big brother present from a very generous friend. When people ask me, "How is he adjusting?" and then me wondering if they really want to know or if this story would make them feel too uncomfortable.
Today, my hair is flipping in on one side and out on the other.
This morning, my two week old spit up down the front of my newly showered self, on the one article of non maternity clothing that is starting to fit my unreal new size of milk boobs.
This week, I've snuggled with both my boys on the couch and realized I had everything I really need in my life.
The first few weeks postpartum are the highest of highs and lowest of lows. My best friend says she remembers nothing of the first year of her second born. She describes it as a haze. A writer friend has been keeping me accountable to taking notes the past few weeks because God is doing crazy oatmeal things in my heart. Too many to let go. My babies could wake at any moment so without delay, here are some of those moments:
My sweet husband telling me he is so proud of me, over and over again.
My closest girlfriends curled up on the hospital bed with me, oohing and ahhing over Baby Matthias.
My eldest son, Titus, meeting his baby brother for the first time. He was more interested in the graham crackers the nurses had brought me to revive me post two hour labor. I didn't eat them, because my life seems to be inundated by them. Not even in the hospital can I escape their crumbs. True to form, Titus scooted away from his brother and toward his beloved crackers. I don't despair. If I was one, that would probably be my choice too.
Apologizing to my mom, a lot. My mom came for the first week, which is always the hardest week and despite all my efforts, my tongue often got the best of me. I so wanted her to know how much I appreciated her, but sleep deprivation is an ugly shadow over my struggle for a James-esc tamed tongue. Postpartum sanctification right here. In trying to give her a break, I told her to go grab a shower. I would be fine, I promise. I got this mom thing. Titus tripped over my foot and busted his lip open. Blood. Lots of blood. While I was changing Matthias. Poop, lots of poop. While my shirt was half off. Milk. Lots of milk. Mom rushed down, towel still on her head. Bless her nurse soul, she got Titus a wash cloth with an ice cube. She wrapped a rubber band around it and called it his "little man." I snapped at her, telling her I knew he wouldn't suck on that, he never sucks on ice or popsicles or whatever frozen thing we have, and I know my son better than she knows my son, and all the terrible stupid things that rolled off my bodily fluid soaked self. Wouldn't you know it? He took it right away and sucked on it FOR AN ENTIRE SESAME STREET EPISODE. Darn it. So many sorries mom.
My mom calling the movement in Matthias' seat "the vibrator," calling the milk catcher my "apparatus," and stating she "fricasseed" her soup every time she put it in the microwave.
Writing a lot of thank you notes and letters. Postpartum always humbles me to the point of saying the things I should've said a long time ago. A lot of apology notes. A lot of sympathy cards. And a whole lot of thank yous. I seem to fit in what I've been trying say all my life into the first few months of post baby motivation.
Stepping on the scale for the first time in months, wondering why the heck I thought that was a good idea.
Praying. A lot. For everyone I know. Thanking God over and over again for my baby.
Finding milk sippy cup after milk sippy cup that we neglected to put back in the fridge. Wondering how much organic whole milk money we poured down the drain. Wondering how long I will be this absentminded.
Leaving my gate open and letting my aggressive dog out, not noticing until he was at the mail lady's heels. Feeling the serious consequences, and heavy heartedness, of my absentmindedness. Wondering if it is time we let Champ go to someone who can care for him better than we can.
Changing Matthias and hearing the quick tearing of the beautiful journalling Bible my parents gave me for Christmas get torn up. Turning to see my toddler ripping out page after page of 1 Peter and Revelation, two books close to my heart over the past year, filled with notes after notes. Weeping, fighting for the truth that those words are already where they need to be, in my head and in my heart.
Guilt, so much guilt, over babies lost when my Matthias, "gift of God," is right here in my arms.
My son Titus, outside, playing in the rocks and dirt like everything is the same after these two weeks of nothing being the same.
My son Titus kissing my foot after he dropped his tray on it, displaying perhaps one of the first signs of empathy I've ever seen in him.
Changing the words to "You are my sunshine" and "Sleep now, Baby Boy," two lullabies I modified for Titus, and now have modified again for Matthias.
Sobbing in the corner of my dining room after my toddler bit me, while I was explaining to him that I put him in time out for biting. Calling Tim to come take him to bed. Realizing parenting under this extreme exhaustion requires Gods grace, upon grace, upon grace.
Being so scared I couldn't do it on my own, only to realize when my husband pulled in from work that I did.
There is more, so much more, but I hear my toddler awaking. I love and hate postpartum days. I need to go through them to see my Savior fully right now, in all my weakness, He is strong, gracious, and good. He gives good gifts. He gave me my sons, this body and heart to be their mama, and the village to keep the mama sane (and fed) in the process.