Time is Tricky
As I race out of the office at 3:10 PM to catch the train and pick up my son from daycare, all I can think about is getting home to him. Then, when I'm home, all I can think about is when my husband will get home. Then, when my husband gets home, I think about when we will have dinner, when the baby needs to eat again, and when he will let us put him down to sleep for the night. I fall asleep on the couch around 10:00 PM and head up to bed, only to repeat the same pattern the next day.
I can see and feel these moments pass me by, and I know I need to hold on to them, because in one month, six months, and one year from now, I will look back on these days with sadness and wish I could relive them. My mind is constantly preoccupied with what comes next, or what I am not doing. Soon, my son will start rolling over, holding his own bottle, crawling. Soon, Christmas will be here, then Valentine's Day, then Fourth of July, and my newborn will suddenly be a toddler.
I always thought I'd be a fit mom, stylish and cool, cooking healthy meals for dinner and doing yoga 7 days a week. I think every day about how I need to start exercising again. Before and even during my pregnancy, I worked out every day after work at 4:15 PM, without fail. Now, 4:15 PM is spent washing baby bottles and laying out clothes for daycare the next day. When I'm trying to squeeze my new body into a pair of old jeans that no longer fit, I feel guilty and berate myself for not being that "fit mom" I expected and planned to be. I worry that my husband will no longer find me attractive, or that others will look at me and compare me now to the me of five years ago, who ran 3 miles a day and wore a size 0.
I think about my previously pregnant body, how beautiful I felt then, and how beautiful I no longer feel when I look at my waist that's a size bigger than it was before. I compare myself to other moms who seem to "have it all." How do they have the discipline to drink 64 oz of water a day and not eat three fun-sized Snickers bars while laying on the couch watching Jeopardy?
At the same time, when I'm laying on the couch with my son, rocking him to sleep and whispering to him through his cries that it's going to be okay, I realize that this is my new normal. My body grew a human, and it brought life into this world. My son will never be this small again, and when I kiss his chubby cheeks one or two extra times, I know that the size of my body means nothing to him.
Some day, I will look back on this time, and I won't remember how I wished I could do 30 minutes of exercise or what size jeans I wore. I will remember how my son's head smells, or how he smiles when I sing Old McDonald to him, or the way his tiny hand grasps the collar of my shirt when he's sleeping.
I can see and feel these moments pass me by, and I know I need to hold on to them, because in one month, six months, and one year from now, I will look back on these days with sadness and wish I could relive them. My mind is constantly preoccupied with what comes next, or what I am not doing. Soon, my son will start rolling over, holding his own bottle, crawling. Soon, Christmas will be here, then Valentine's Day, then Fourth of July, and my newborn will suddenly be a toddler.
I always thought I'd be a fit mom, stylish and cool, cooking healthy meals for dinner and doing yoga 7 days a week. I think every day about how I need to start exercising again. Before and even during my pregnancy, I worked out every day after work at 4:15 PM, without fail. Now, 4:15 PM is spent washing baby bottles and laying out clothes for daycare the next day. When I'm trying to squeeze my new body into a pair of old jeans that no longer fit, I feel guilty and berate myself for not being that "fit mom" I expected and planned to be. I worry that my husband will no longer find me attractive, or that others will look at me and compare me now to the me of five years ago, who ran 3 miles a day and wore a size 0.
I think about my previously pregnant body, how beautiful I felt then, and how beautiful I no longer feel when I look at my waist that's a size bigger than it was before. I compare myself to other moms who seem to "have it all." How do they have the discipline to drink 64 oz of water a day and not eat three fun-sized Snickers bars while laying on the couch watching Jeopardy?
At the same time, when I'm laying on the couch with my son, rocking him to sleep and whispering to him through his cries that it's going to be okay, I realize that this is my new normal. My body grew a human, and it brought life into this world. My son will never be this small again, and when I kiss his chubby cheeks one or two extra times, I know that the size of my body means nothing to him.
Some day, I will look back on this time, and I won't remember how I wished I could do 30 minutes of exercise or what size jeans I wore. I will remember how my son's head smells, or how he smiles when I sing Old McDonald to him, or the way his tiny hand grasps the collar of my shirt when he's sleeping.
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