Any women's first child will always be a pregnancy to remember. It's our first time we are encouraged to gain wait. It's a time we exchange the pain and discomfort of our monthly visits for a whole new kind of pain and discomfort. It's the time we prep for a new life to arrive and prepare ourselves to undergo the most intense naturally occurring pain that any human will ever naturally endure and no matter what you do to prepare yourself, you'll always have that sense of worry and doubt. But the relief and joy really does make everything a woman has faced well worth it.
Religion and I have never quite seen eye to eye. I was raised in a Catholic church, not super strictly or anything—we weren't at church every single Sunday or anything. But my dad always sat with us at bedtime to say our prayers. We were at church on the major holidays and we were baptized and had communion and were confirmed. I, however, was not the perfect little religious child. I was definitely more rebellious than religious. The church that I attended wasn't exactly thrilled when I got pregnant out of wedlock but luckily, I have a pretty cool family and they introduced me to the church I currently take my daughter to.
My son, Samuel, is 18-months-old (or a year and a half, you'll probably be hearing about him a lot), and I CANNOT TELL YOU how many mornings I have woken up to poop in his bed after he somehow ripped his diaper off in the middle of the night inside of his pants. When he wakes up, I shuffle across the hall to his room, and see him playing in poop. By the way, my son wakes up usually between 4:30-5. Yes, that's the morning. He wakes up even before my husband goes to work. So I immediately take him to the bathroom, undress him, rinse him off in the tub, clean out the tub, and run him a bath. Every time. So after his early morning bath, clean diaper and clothes, we go get in my bed and watch Baby Bums on Youtube and cuddle. I make him eggs for breakfast every morning, but he has to have a pre-breakfast, which is usually a banana. Gee, wonder why my brother calls him a hobbit. All of this happens before 8 AM. I go to work, and come and get him. And this starts over every day this way (the poop part may happen once a week, but there for a while it was a struggle).
Parenting is difficult for anyone, but as parents, we must do all we can to raise our kids the best we can. They are our legacy and the future of the world. They will encompass all that we are in a tiny package, so for God’s sake, raise your kid’s not to be dicks to others.
Coward. Coward is all I can think. Back then when I was five, you were a hero. When I was 13, I would go to you first for anything. When I was 18, I had my first heartfelt conversation with you and we cried together. When I was 21, you broke my heart. You didn't break my heart slowly, you allowed it to linger, hanging on a single hinge for a week. You spoke to me of things I shouldn't have had to deal with on my own, you made me lie and hide words. You let me cry for your stupidity and disappointed me every time I'd see a drink in your hand. You probably thought it was OK, felt relieved even, to get those words off your chest and share them with someone close. But with those words you condemned me. You changed your ways with the world. You stopped caring, you yelled in front of people who shouldn't have heard it. You were the person I looked up to, an idol of sorts. You were the safety at home, the protector. Then you slowly became the absentee, the runner. I would stay up late nights to make sure you'd be home, wondering, worrying. I would hear the fights. I felt the pain.