I always imagined that once I became a mom, I’d have a surplus of things to write about, that stories and anecdotes would just flow from this crazy, whirlwind experience called parenthood. But describing the past two months is difficult. Everything sounds so cliché, like it’s been written a million times before.
I mean, I could tell you that sleeping in—or heck, sleeping for more than four hours at a time—is but a distant memory. Or that “getting ready” means throwing on a pair of leggings and any top that isn’t splotched with boob milk. Or that tiny luxuries—a hot shower that lasts longer than seven minutes, a fresh coat of polish on my long-abandoned toenails, a quiet meal at the table with my husband—feel like mini vacations.
I could tell you that leaving the house requires a 17-point checklist and a mega-dose of ambition. That the terms “snotsucker” and “poosplosion” surface regularly in everyday conversation. That after trying the Five S’s (sucking, swaddling, shushing, swinging and putting the baby on its side), I’m ready to try the next two: sound-proofing and Smirnoff. That I feel like I’ve been handed this ticking time bomb, ready to detonate at any given moment.
Or I could also tell you that seeing her smile makes my heart shoot out of my chest like a Mentos and Coke experiment. That her sweet coos are the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. That the old phrase, “The days are long but the years are short” makes so much sense now. That when I rock her to sleep, the entire world melts away.
That I simultaneously want to freeze time and glimpse into the future. That I can’t stop telling her, “I love you, I love you, I will love you forever.” That nothing will ever be the same.
Sometimes, there are no words.