Thursday morning I woke up and still had a headache. In complete defeat, I dressed Luke, fed him, and walked him down to the sitter's. Afterward, Tommy and I climbed into bed and napped for FOUR HOURS curled into each other. When I woke up, I still had a headache, but I felt refreshed. Shane came home, and we got Dairy Queen for dinner. I ate a Blizzard and didn't even think about working out.
Friday, I still had a teeny tiny headache, but much less of one. Friday night, I cried to Shane that I felt like I was losing control of everything, that I felt like a horrible mother and wife. He rubbed my back and promised me that he didn't care if we lived in the messiest house in the world, as long as I was happy.
Saturday morning, I didn't have a headache. We went to a farmer's market, and I carried one sweet boy tight against me.
And laughed with delight while the other was turned into a tiger.
When we got home, I did some housework and laundry, but I stopped when I got tired. I ate three pieces of apple cake and still didn't work out. When it was bedtime, instead of rushing Luke into bed so I could clean or work out or whatever stupid thing seemed to matter a week ago, I cuddled with him in our bed, which we haven't done since the night Tommy was born. As he grabbed my hand tight in his and pressed it against the sweet, soft spot of his belly where his pajamas don't quite cover because he is growing, growing, GROWING so big every day, I cried quietly into my pillow.
I cried because for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I really enjoyed being a mom. I cried because letting go is hard and forgiving yourself is even harder. I cried because it's going to get better, even when it doesn't seem like it, it will. But mostly I cried because there is so much love in my life, and somehow, over these past eight weeks, I forgot that these two don't care if the floors are swept or if I get my post-baby stomach back in shape. They just care that their mama is healthy and happy and loving on them all day long.