They should’ve warned me that eating healthy, proper portions of food would create enough of the nourishing milk that my daughter needs to grow. That I wouldn’t even want to diet at first, at all. That hearing at her two-week doctor appointment that she’d gained enough weight, all from my body feeding her, would make me feel prouder than anything ever had. That the weight I would now become obsessed with was hers, and it would be all about health. That my body would actually fit back into my jeans in six weeks, but that I would be way too comfy in leggings to bother with actual pants. And that my husband would tell me I’m sexy. Like, very often and with conviction.
They should’ve warned me that despite the exhaustion, waking up to tenderly care for her needs would be the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. That when it was just the two of us awake at 4 in the morning I would cherish the soft quietness of the whole world, cat at my feet and baby nursing in my lap, and cry because these days are fleeting. They should’ve warned me that watching her start to grow out of her newborn clothes would break my heart. That some days I would just stare at her for hours and not care about the deadlines I was missing. That her little cries and screams wouldn’t piss me off but would make me rise to action, that when I calmed and soothed her I would feel like a rockstar. That I would sleep. Maybe not every night and maybe not many hours in a row. But that my biggest upset about sleep would be that every time she napped on my chest I would worry that it would be the last time. That savoring her newbornness would become a full-time job and the best one I’d ever had.
That I would sleep. Maybe not every night and maybe not many hours in a row. But that my biggest upset about sleep would be that every time she napped on my chest I would worry that it would be the last time.
They should’ve warned me that I would indeed get my nails done, but that I would sit in the pedicure chair texting her father compulsively because I missed them. That I would pick up a discarded Elle and watch a tear fall onto its table of contents. So much for relaxing, these postpartum pedicures!
They should’ve warned me that becoming a mommy would absolutely change every single thing, but that I would never want to go back and visit the “old” me, not even for a second. They should’ve warned me that my life was about to become so rich and beautiful and fulfilling, that I’d look back on what it was before and think, “Poor me. I didn’t know her yet.”
Re-blogged with permission from Jensy of Born to be a Bride
