The last few days have been really, really hard. And for no particular reason. The thing about postpartum depression, for me at least, is each day is so different. Some days the smiles and laughter come naturally and other days I have to really, really work for them. Some days I even feel like my "old self" and some days my eyes are wet more than they're dry.
Some days, motherhood feels like I'm trying to go forward while the car is in reverse...like I'm a fish trying to fly...like I'm trying to read Chinese.
It's hard for me.
So, yeah. Being a mom hasn't come all that naturally to me and I have really hard days where the PPD gets the best of me and I'm just so sad and it's hard to do more than the minimum BUT, I'm really grateful for the opportunity to be a mother. What more could you ask for?
I have finally gotten to the place where I can honestly say I wouldn't change it. I am really, truly so happy with where my life is at. I am in love with Ainsley. She is a piece of me. My heart overflows when I look at her.
A few days ago, the thought occurred to me that I'm not always going to have little ones at home and that thought made me very, very sad.
No matter how hard being a mom is, no matter how much I miss my sleep or how much I hate changing poopy diapers with a baby trying to free-fall off the changing table (why have they not invented tranquilizers for diaper changes?!) no matter how much I want time to myself or how emotionally draining baby screams are, there is a lot I love about being a mom.
Surprisingly, with all the tough stuff, there is way more good.
I love the little hand prints on the back of the couch, on the sliding glass door in the living room, and on my full length mirror in my bedroom.
I love getting her dressed every day. She's my baby doll. I practiced dressing my baby dolls my whole childhood in anticipation that someday the baby would be real and I would be her mother.
I love the toys everywhere. I love that I just adjusted my laptop cord and it knocked her fisher price piano into an obnoxious nursery rhyme.
I love showing her pictures of Jesus knowing that she knows Him better than I ever will in this life.
I love telling her how special she is.
I love that I have the power to help her feel loved and adored (because she is!).
I love that she's so true to her emotions. Giggling and crying within the same minute.
I love that she calls me mama (or, most of the time "mamamamamam").
I love the bows and the little socks and the teddy bears and the bottles and the brightly colored plastic spoons.
I love that every new milestone is more exciting than the freaking olympics.
I love that she's healthy enough to smear pureed potatoes on the blinds and tear pages out of my books.
I love her perfectly genuine smile that's more contagious than pink eye (really though).
I love doing whatever ridiculous thing it takes to get out her infectious laughter.
I love that she has my nose.
I love that she has fully accepted me as her momma from day one.
I love nursing and that I'm the only one that can give her the perfect formula of what she needs.
I love that I finally got to put a baby to the name I've had in my head since I was about nine. The name "Ainsley" has probably been doodled on more than 100 sheets of notebook paper.
I love the bobble head thing she does lately.
I love when she reaches out for me.
I love when I feel her chubby little hands pull up on the back of my pants.
I love seeing her happy knowing that I have a part in that, even if it's small.
I love showing her new things and taking her new places pretending that it impresses her more than the local park (it doesn't).
I love the rare (extremely rare) moments where she lays her head on my shoulder.
I love watching her try to grab the dust in the air that's only visible when the light shines through just right.
I love that she looks at me like a have a third eye when I brush my teeth.
I love her sweet little lips and innocent blue eyes.
I love wrapping her up in a snuggly blanket.
I love how much I miss her as soon as I put her down for bed.
I love her fuzzy hair and her crazy bed head.
I love how easily all the things I love are flowing from my fingers.
I love that I could write a thousand more and it wouldn't even be close to everything.
Please Ainsley, don't grow up too fast.