A few ways in which my life has changed in the past month:
I'm sitting here in a pair of oversized sweatpants stained with a half-dollar sized dollop of seedy infant shit that escaped the leg of the PBG's Pampers while she was feeding. For the uninitiated, an infant excretes something that looks more like stone ground mustard than Bristol Stool Chart fare.
I have had a change of heart about 5:30 a.m. as a start time rather than an end time. Used to be I'd grudgingly bed down around this hour, my belly a soup of box wine and gas station burrito and this space of the internet filled with inside jokes, swears and my acoustic version of "Firework." Waking at this hour was as laughable as, well, me being intrusted to raise a human being. From scratch. This is now my favorite hour. It still finds me attached to the bed like I'm covered in Velcro. But once I rip myself free, it's the best part of the day. The PBG is all coos, gaping O yawns and expressions that I convince myself are smiles.
I use my free-hand time to happily do chores. M'Lady eats every 2-3 hours, craps regularly, and sometimes prefers a cradle of arms as opposed to her multiple designated sleeping spaces. She's very Cleopatra like that. So, faced with free arms, I load the dishwasher. I wash bottles. I run a load of laundry or empty the dirty diapers. It's very satisfying, this Taking Advantage of Having Two Hands. I imagine that if I wasn't washing, loading or emptying, I'd just clap or make Jazz Hands just because I could.
I no longer believe"Raised You and Your Brother (1972-1998)" means anything on your resume. It's like if I had "Server at Mama B's Italian Restaurant (1996-1998): Guided guests on a gastrointestinal tour of Italy, as interpretted by Midwestern Scandinavians" still on my resume. This little bullet point marking my parents combined experience doesn't mean I won't spend an entire lunch without the baby worrying that her keepers are going to lose control of the stroller and send it into traffic, antogonize a ferocious dog, jostle her brains by purposefully aiming for the biggesst cracks in the sidewalk.
I think your kids are cute. Seriously. Once a reason to skim facebook, I now find the squished Yoda melons of your offspring to be ... adorable. I've even taken to *liking* photographs of kids and status updates recording the darndest things they say/do. Likewise, when I take a picture of my own, it takes all of my strength to not text it to 20 people who undoubtedly don't give a shit that the PBG is a smirking cross-eyed senior citizen in a baby bonnet.
There is milk in my boobs. It can be coaxed out by hand, by pump, and by mouth. And sometimes it just seeps out of its own volition.
I ooze cheese. I talk in a funny voice and make up endearing nicknames. I rub noses with a newborn, conscious that we are like a Before and After photograph chronicaling the history of this particular schnoz. I coo and giggle and say things like "I'm your mom!" I replay the circumstances of her birth and my eyes spill. My heart sometimes feels like someone attached a tire pump to it and we're one squeeze from bursting.
I will touch anything. I have no problem digging crap stains out of a butt or liberating a dangling booger. Those projectile spits that ooze down my torso aren't particularly impressive either. I can do way grosser than this. No evidence that I feel differently about handling leeches, worms, mushrooms.
I've stopped referencing mirrors. I'll probably end up wearing these shit-stained sweatpants in public.