I have forgotten what it’s like to have such a small baby.
My third child. A surprise son when I thought I was done. Cool, a rhyme. Like the baby books I now read all the time.
I sit here trying to remember how to type. Trying to remember how to make the brain do the think stuff. Make the letters do the word things.
Does any of that make sense?
I want to write but the second I have a second I can’t remember how to or all I can think about is all the other stuff that I should be doing. All that stuff that equals progress and profit.
I am having one of those terrible times when I feel as though I can’t be like the “other mother”.
You know “other mother”. The one who works full time and volunteers 132 hours a week. She runs some kids club or team or both, wears the same size as her 10 year old daughter, and cooks organic “whole” food dinners ever-damn night.
The one that is soo proud her fourth baby is valedictorian of third grade just like their siblings were. Her husband has posted more than once on his social media how proud he is of her and their family and even includes an un-embarrasing photo of her that HE took.
She runs for fun and she has over three thousand facebook friends and wants to know if you’d be interested in trying the product that changed her life and paid for her to go to the Bahamas with the other former cheerleaders she sells with.
Yeah, you know “other mother”.
I gave up long ago on ever being her to be totally honest.
(Do I sound jealous? Because I am.)
A friend had a baby not long after I did. She is already back to pre-baby body, which is the same body she had in high school. She works part time and is starting a home bakery. Among other things.
Then there’s me. For the life of me I can’t seem to just get my most basic shit together. I am honestly avoiding pushing the publish button on this post because I keep re-reading to discover that several words are missing and some of them are so misspelled spell check wants to know if I’ve had a stroke.
I can barely get through the day without an unintentional nap in between switching clothes from the washer to the dryer, or restarting the washer because I forgot about it. Again.
My give a damn is broken and I don’t know if I have enough damn to keep going sometimes.
Send help.
Actually don’t because my social anxiety is back.
Just kidding.
It never left.
A Hermitess 