Ok, so the baby is twenty weeks old today. Four and a half months. At what point is it completely unacceptable to still count your baby in weeks? I reckon if a mama told me her baby was, say, 27 weeks old, I’d not hear the next bit of the conversation because I’d still be working out what that looks like in months. I’m not gonna lie, I’m not hot on mental maths, so maybe it’s just me. But I feel like now I’m reaching the point of silly with this whole weeks thing when I’m talking to non-medical general people, and I need to curb it otherwise I’ll be applying for his place at secondary school like ‘yeah he’s 528 weeks old now…’
So counting in months it is. After this week Maybe…
Yet another step away from tiny-babydom, sniff sniff.
I’m okay with admitting that it’s pretty much taken me these four months – Yes, FOUR MONTHS – to feel like I have started to get into the swing of it as a mama of three on very broken sleep. And when I say getting into the swing of it, what I mean is I’m not feeling like I’m dropping all the spinning plates, all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m dropping plates left, right and centre . Just not all of them; and some of them keep spinning too, chance would have it.
Yesterday I looked at the floors upstairs whilst I rocked a crying baby and cringed at the tumbleweed size balls of dust gathering behind the doors. But I got TJ to fall asleep for a nap in his cot upstairs (after an hour and a half!) for the first time.
I look at my hair in the mirror and scowl at my roots. But I remembered to order my brothers’ birthday present.
It been too long since I last blogged. Again. But I have been practising my girls’ lines with them for the Christmas play.
I keep forgetting fundamental basics in the online food orders, but I’ve been nailing it with the Black Friday sales.
I still have summer clothes in a pile under the stairs. But I’ve restored an old kitchen table we bought at the local auction.
Do you see what I mean? I’m winning at life half the time, and then totally face-planting the rest. How the jeepers do some mamas seem to manage it all?
Do their babies nap for hours in the day, like the books say they’re supposed to? Do they have the energy to resist collapsing on the sofa after the kids are finally in bed and clean the house then- and spend time with other halves/family/friends? And the biggie, when do they have time to shave their legs, do their nails and get their hair done???
Do you ever feel like you’re always one step behind, forever playing catch up? It’s an inherent trait of motherhood that leaves us wishing we’d done more. achieved more. Been more. Then maybe, just maybe we’ll earn our place as a mama.
I have a theory.
This place where we strive to get to, where we feel we’re enough? It’s an illusion.
It’s like the end of a rainbow. It doesn’t exist. And making peace with that doesn’t change things, but it makes it a whole lot easier to live with.
There is always going to be a cupboard that needs sorting out.
There are always going to windows and toilets waiting to be cleaned (right? please say that’s not just my house…!)
There is always going to be that appointment/commitment that you need to let go of because you just can’t do it all.
I feel like I’ve been over this before, and I don’t want to sound like a broken record, regurgitating the same message over and over. But this schizz is important. It matters.
Comparison is tiring. It’s damaging and it’s dangerous because so often it happens without the full picture. Another mum recently referred to me as ‘supermum’ at the girls’ swimming lessons. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How had she got it so so wrong?! She’s obviously deluded, bless her soul, but it makes me sad that she saw someone, anyone else, as doing a better job than she was doing.
I truly don’t know how other mamas do more. I really don’t. But I’m tired of comparing myself to them. So instead I’ll salute them and cheer them on. I’ll be okay with not getting everything done. I might write a few more lists and try to get a bit more organised. But mostly, I’ll just roll with it, and not wish away this time that my boy is so small and needs my cuddles so much. Because it moves by so very fast.
But really – if anyone knows how they get time to shave their legs…
Mrs C x
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