Honest Mom

To be honest with you, I don't really care for babies.  Don't get me wrong.  I like other people's babies.  My own?  Well, they were hard.  I realize now that with each of my children, Mason most notably, I suffered from postpartum.  I felt like every day I was hanging precariously onto whatever marbles I had left.  I lost a few along the way, I know. The reason I prefer 18 month old children and up?  Because babies cry.....and cry.....and cry....and cry.

So I nursed.  Keep in mind.  I couldn't eat, sleep, bathe, brush my teeth, do my hair, shop, cook or clean without this tiny human screaming at me.  Every. Single. Minute.  I had barely enough energy to get out of bed that first few weeks, let alone clean, sterilize, or make bottles.  But I could nurse, luckily.  It kept them quiet.  I could finally get five minutes of peace while they ate.  Needless to say, I had very, very fat babies.  Because I like peace.

I truly started to love, adore, and cherish my sons once they started talking to me.  When they would cry, I could ask, "Why are you crying?"  and they could TELL me.  I rejoiced in every conversation.  Still do, much to my preteens' dismay.  I love to hear them talk, have conversations, and come up with their own ideas.  LOVE it.

So, in all honesty, our life together had a rough start.  And maybe there are other parents out there who are thinking "Glad it's not just me".  But rough start or not, like some pretty good books I've read, it may not have started out the greatest, but it's the middle and the ending that can make the best stories.