To My Lovely Daughter,
Let me start by saying how sorry I am, for I’ve been a terrible playmate lately. I hid your recorder and your stupid popcorn vacuum you love so much. I threw away your finger paints because the smell makes me want to vomit. I don’t play chase, and we haven’t been to the park in weeks. Worse yet, I will admit to ignoring probably half of your (nearly constant) requests for my attention, in hopes that if I give you a little time, you will figure out whatever you are working on by yourself.
I get it. Mama’s not winning any awards.
This is hardly how I envisioned our last month together, before Baby 2.0 gets here. I imagined showering you with enough love and attention so when he does arrive, you will have reserves to draw from before coming to the realization you are no longer the only beneficiary of my love. But instead I’m snappy and short. I’m distant and horribly guilty of making this face when you ask me “why?” for the 934,213 time before 9am:
But, my dear daughter, I promise this is temporary.
My current, third trimester physical state could best be described as an anaconda who swallowed a hippo who had rabies. And chicken pox. And was also on fire. I don’t know if hippos can get rabies, (or chicken pox for that matter) but basically what I’m trying to say is the combination of my limited mobility, my itchy, stretched out skin, my heartburn and my wild hormonal swings has turned me into a royal shit. Couple this with the fact that I haven’t slept well since 2012 (no, seriously), on account of either being pregnant, or the mother to a young child who apparently doesn’t need sleep to survive, I’m a little out of sorts. Also contractions times a million. Those aren’t helping a damn thing.
Now I’m not trying to make excuses…but I am.
Has Mommy been shitty? Yes. Will Mommy be shitty for a little while longer? Probably. Does Mommy feel shitty about it? You betcha.
But you, my sweet little munchkin, are cut from your Mama’s cloth. You are tough. You are forgiving. You are whip smart. And that’s not even taking into consideration the qualities your Daddy has passed on to you, like your insatiable thirst for milk. You are so wonderful, and I am thankful for your every single day, even if my only way of showing it is feeding you cereal bars and letting you watch Wild Kratts, because I can’t deal with life.
Mama will be back. It will be different, but I will be back.
Hang in there, little one. But not literally. Seriously, stop hanging on the crib. I’m going to count to three… One, two, please get down. Please? Two and a half. Two and three quarters. Oh for the love. Okay fine, do you want to watch a show?