It has been eight weeks since my Little Love arrived. Boy what an eight weeks it has been. The weeks since he has been here have simultaneously been the longest and quickest weeks of my life. Kind of the same as pregnancy I guess. My life seems to have become a constant blur of changing nappies, making and giving bottles and fitting housework in between. Even whilst he is sleeping, I am always thinking about when he will most likely want fed again and when I need to make his bottle so that its ready, but not to hot and not going to need to be thrown out before he wakes up. There are so many rules or guidelines as to what you should do and what you shouldn’t do now that how anybody keeps up is beyond me, but we try.
Honestly, real talk, mentally it has also been eight weeks of complete anxiety. I have worried about anything and everything and nothing, all at the same time. Since my little man was born I have had a constant knot in my stomach. I’m pretty sure my heart lives in my mouth now and my shoulders live somewhere round by my ears. Half the time I have to remind myself to actually take a deep breath.
On the day of writing this post my little man is staying at my mum’s for the night. This is his third sleepover at her house. The first time I stayed as well and the second time, hubby was home with me, so I had company. Tonight is the first night since giving birth that I have spent completely alone with my thoughts. I was telling my mum earlier on how tonight I felt like I needed to leave him with her as opposed to I actually wanted to. Obviously I did want to as well or I wouldn’t have done it but what I meant was that I have slowly been reaching a point of exhaustion. I am so tired from always trying to do everything that I find myself getting frustrated. Last night the baby was crying and was very difficult to settle. As I stood and rocked him, and tears fell down my cheeks and in to his hair, I began to wonder if I could carry on doing this. I know that most of the time it’s just the tiredness talking but every so often the utter permanence of having a baby absolutely terrifies me. Not because I don’t love him beyond all belief and I know that eventually he will get to a point where he can tell me what he wants or that his tummy hurts or his head hurts or I will know that he just needs a cuddle or is over tired and just being a pain because he hasn’t had a nap. Right now though I feel like I have absolutely no idea. Some days I will reach a point where I feel like I know whats wrong and then either I will start to question myself or someone will say something that makes me question everything I thought I knew about him.
Since I was pregnant my biggest problem has been my worry. Not really the worrying part but the knowing whether it is valid or not. It’s also becoming increasingly difficult to make an off-hand comment about anything without everyone thinking im freaking out. When it comes to the baby though I do find that if I think something is off with him and I mention it, people will try to make me feel better by saying its nothing or it’s normal. It almost makes me a bit mad sometimes. I feel like if it genuinely was something to worry about that it would get fobbed off as me being anxious. It annoys me because I am the person who spends the most time with him and so I know what is “normal” for him and what isn’t. I’m not exactly sure how I want people to react if I said something was wrong because I’m sure if they agreed with me that it wasnt normal then that would make me panic more.
I get told a lot that if something was wrong with him then I would know about it. That may be true to a degree as generally babies tend to cry if something is wrong. That something could be anything from over tired, hungry, too hot or really hurt though so how on earth are you supposed to know which cry is which. Apparently you learn their different cries but as of yet I am still learning. I understand that most of the things I worry about mainly I have no control over anyway. It wouldn’t matter if he was with me, my husband, one of his grandparents or a stranger from down the street, if something is going to happen then it is going to happen. I have always been a believer in fate and everything happens for a reason. Even if we have no idea what that reason is. I think that’s what makes being a mum harder. I understand that I can’t realistically keep an eye on him 24/7 and I can’t keep him wrapped in cotton wool never letting him go anywhere or experience life for himself but my goodness I wish I could.