I’ll preface this by saying I love my 5 year old and 7 month old beyond words. They are my world. And babies are undeniably cute. The little fat rolls. The outfits. Their little habits. I get it. And maybe I’m feeling this way because we don’t have any family aroind/alive to help, etc etc.
But fuck me do I hate this phase.
The begging them to go to sleep.
The shhing, the willing them to please just nap.
The teething.
The feeds. The mess. The throwing of food or purée or whatever at me, the floor, the dog.
The incessant cleaning. Food, clean, food, clean.
The night feeds. The debilitating exhaustion.
The bottle refusal.
The way my boobs look after breastfeeding two. I feel like I have udders. They are huge, swollen, bulbous lumps of meat that get clawed at a dozen times a day. I have no dignity now, they’re just out all the time.
My body isn’t mine. I don’t recognise it. The weight gain, the lack of energy to do exercise or eat a decent healthy meal because that’s more time and effort and energy than I have.
The guilt that I went back to work so soon. For being freelance and not taking leave, but actually wanting to go back because it was something that was mine.
That no matter the most liberal and modern of fathers, it will always fall on the mother to do the heavy lifting. Emotionally, physically, financially the mother takes the burden.
I feel better for getting that off my chest but I could never admit this in RL. I am incredibly lucky to have two healthy children and I don’t want to wish this phase away, but oh my god I want some sort of life.