Exactly three months in and the little Bean laughs for the very first time, the single sweetest most magical little glimpse of heavenly cuteness I’ve ever encountered (just, gah!! So cute!!!), and poof! I’m beginning to forget.
I’m forgetting all the initial horror of this lovely experience- the way you’re expected to care for a brand new vulnerable little life immediately upon the conclusion of the most ridonkulous experience you’ve ever endured. Nevermind that your entire body was just hit full-force by a semi, a very mean semi that targeted your ladyparts- It’s go time mama!
I’m forgetting the weeks upon weeks of being so sleep deprived that every time she cries my eyes well up, not because I’m filled to the brim with motherly compassion, but because I am. SO. DANG. TIRED. So tired that I actually think I am going to die. I wonder how many times in the last three months I've thought to myself being this child’s mother is very literally going to end my life? I mean people say things like that, adults and moms are always saying things like that, but I had no idea that they meant it.
Many many things did I not understand about the life of a mom before becoming a mom. And I am certain I hardly have a clue now. I feel like I’m slowly being inducted into this secret society of women who, seemingly operating outside of reason, choose (over and over again) squishy little baby cheeks, heavenly giggles, and soft sweet-smelling baby skin over the right to live a normal self-concerned sort of life.
And by normal I mean one wherein personal hygiene, general physical appearance, and sanity are given priority, or heck at least a friendly nod from time to time. Last summer, I would have been buggin about the lack of tan on this pasty body of mine. We’re halfway through September, and I feel like I’m looking pretty fresh if I’ve changed out of my husband’s pajama pants (new hips require man-sized apparel), my pits don’t stink, and I’ve brushed my teeth in the last twenty-four hours. Oh and then there’s the five solid colored v-neck tees that account for the totality of my wardrobe. Sexy I know.
But I am starting to get it- I mean baby laughter is pretty much crack for the soul. The laugh occurred early yesterday morning, whilst I was eating her scrumptious little chicken neck, and I have been relentlessly assaulting said baby neck in similar fashion ever since. Too much cuteness. Must have more.
Life is so different. I haven’t thought about myself, like REALLY thought about myself in a really reallllllly long time. Not because I’m special or extra holy or anything, jus because I happen to for the first time in my life have zero time to waste on me. And it’s kind of a really awesome sort of blessing. Because now that the ucky transitional fog of new motherhood is beginning to lift it’s like I was accidentally (or not so accidentally) given a really sober picture of how screwy my priorities were before Babygirl. I’d always kind of thought, in typical christian girl fashion, I’m not SUCH a bad person. I mean, I could totally be worse right? And all of a sudden it’s like boom the lights are on and all I can see is how incredibly selfish I was before I was forcibly stripped of all opportunity to think or do for myself. Whoa, My Abba is so much better at loving me, so much more merciful than I even knew. I’m sure I’ll eek my way back toward being self-centered, I mean it’s kind of what us human-types do. But it’s been stinking cool (and more than a tiny bit painful) to get a glimpse of what it’d be like to really not think about myself, and the kind of freedom there must be in being so like Jesus, that your whole person, your very life, is up for ransom. Not taken from you, but given (Jn 10:18). Because you so LOVE the world (Jn 3:16). I hope He’s slowly making me into that kind of person. I mean I know He is. And partly through this tiny beautiful insanity-inducing gift that’s got a pretty firm grasp on my heart.