So I’m resurrecting/reinventing this blog. What was once essentially a web(site) mottled with agoraphobic observations, doodles, and sandwich appreciation, will now be a place wherein I examine my fears and advertise my successes as a new mom…as well as some doodles, and probably continued sandwich appreciation.
My path to becoming a mom was fairly typical. My husband, Ben, and I had the if not now, then when? conversation, saved zero dollars, and started trying. We tracked my ovulation to the hour, using old wives’ witchery and an app on my phone. We humped diligently and with purpose. We conceived, I told my whole family, and then we lost the baby at 6 weeks. That same day I threw a baby shower for a close friend and only had to excuse myself once to cry in the bathroom. After a few days (daze, really) on the couch, Ben and I got back to work.
After another 3 months of trying, I was knocked up again, but much quieter about it this time. I didn’t tell any family members, ordered fake drinks at the bar with friends, and my eating habits stayed about the same (regarding chewing as more of a guideline than a rule), so nothing was revealed on that front either. This time, the kid stuck.
We didn’t do a cake reveal, rather posted a sonogram to Instagram like the Millenials we apparently are (I had to google it, like such a fucking Millenial). My tagline had something to do with my bump not being pizza this time and I think it really reassured the Insta-community how prepared I was for adult- and motherhood. Ben’s tagline read, “Maggie and I are having a boy in early September!”…ever the succinct pragmatic.
Aside from some rib discomfort and bouts of sciatica, my pregnancy was relatively easy. My labor, on the other hand, was brutal. I started having contractions on a Wednesday and the kid didn’t make his debut until Saturday night. 31 hours of active labor in total and then due to his large head and my dainty pelvis, it all ended (started?) in a C-section. I was so exhausted by the time the surgery rolled around, I literally fell asleep as they were cutting me open. (Props to my anesthesiologist, Manny.)
Now, Jonathan Thomas Lauffer (no, his name is not an homage to JTT…fucking Millenials) is just over 3 weeks old and going through an equally brutal growth spurt, which means he eats all day, all night, and gripes about my lagging boobs every moment in between. It also means I am up all day and all night, griping about my boobs too. In fact, in all my life, I have never thought about, celebrated, stressed over, touched, looked at, or leaked from my boobs as much as I have in the past month. That said, Ben is pretty stoked about them these days.
And here is where I state the obvious – Jonathan is by far the best thing we ever did. I know it’s cliche to say he’s miraculous, but it’s just true. I grew his giant body in mine for 9 months, and now he’s here – all human and in the world. And though he caused and causes us a lot of pain and distress, he’s our very favorite. I love how his eyes roll back in his head when he flutters in and out of sleep, how sweaty his head gets when he nurses, and it is wholly illogical how much I miss him when he’s literally asleep on my lap. I have to remind myself of these things when he is inconsolable at 4 o’clock in the morning, batting at my nipple shield (nipple shields deserve their very own post) and kicking me in the tenderest part of my battle scar, but I think walking that line of exhausted and exhaustive love is a rite of passage for all new moms. I’m excited and terrified to do it, and I plan to report back how it goes. Wish me luck.