the year(s) of the mom

Last Friday night, I went to a Lia Sophia jewelry party, and I walked in all ho-hum about buying jewelry.  Whatever, I have some I don’t even wear at home.  But then I called my husband on the way home and told him that he should buy himself something nice for our anniversary because I spent almost a hundred dollars.  For real.

I think it came at just the right time for me because I am still carrying that twelve-ish pounds from pregnancy, you know that last little bit that is just enough to keep you from fitting in your old jeans.  My house is perpetually dirty as I have lamented here before, and I am generally just in that “blah” postpartum stage when you feel less than pretty.  So I’m pretending for a while that a few new necklaces will totally transform me or something.  At the party, I sat next to a woman with a 16-month-old little boy at home, and she said, “You know, I feel like I’m coming out of the year of the mom.  I went like a whole year without wearing coordinating outfits or jewelry or lipstick or whatever.  I’m a litle over it.”  I thought that was a great way to explain it – that feeling of always belonging to someone else and not having a lot of time for yourself.  The year of the mom.  I’m in the thick of it.  I love baby cuddles, but in my opinion, from month one to about month twelve or so, you really have to focus on that little one, and it’s hard to feel separate, if that makes sense.

So I’m declaring the themes for this month to be revitalization and balance for me.  The husband has been traveling a lot lately, and I’m thinking of instituting a mandatory solitude hour every Sunday afternoon because this week I really almost lost my shit, as people like to say.  I want to drive to a coffee shop and spend $3 on something to drink and just sit there.  Without anyone touching me.  Maybe I’ll even be really crazy and bring along a new knitting project for all that yarn collecting dust on my craft shelf.

August always leaves me itching for change anyhow.  It’s been hot for far too long in Georgia.  I’m watching the mailbox for the first fall catalogue and ready to move on to something new.  Apparently Jude is too because his little preschool backpack came in the mail this week, and he is wearing it all over the house.  It’s adorable and funny and it’s holding a few random things.  He’ll decide to pack up with a sippy cup, a rubber snake, a handful of legoes, and a snack before he makes the long trek from the dining room to the living room or something.

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He starts his two mornings a week preschool program in mid-August, and I was feeling a little weepy, but he’s driven me insane this week, so I guess it’ll be okay and to be honest, very good for us.  If I can nurse a baby without having to worry about where in the house there might be a puddle of pee, that is progress.  Sigh, toddlers.  Good thing they are super cute.

 

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I’m thinking we’re headed out for breakfast tomorrow morning at my favorite spot and then scouring some thrift stores for a small bookshelf. Happy weekend!

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One thought on “the year(s) of the mom

  1. Oh Katie, I completely get it. I remember when Atticus was a newborn and nursing constantly and the house was a mess and I couldn’t eat any ice cream because of the cursed dairy intolerance and I would read your monthly craft posts and read about your wine and knitting at night and think “I will never be my own person again.” And now that I do have time to do my own thing (within reason) I actually miss all the hours on the couch cuddling.

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