I know, I know, I know I write a ton about my baby these days. I know babies and children aren’t for everyone and that is cool, like in the strong sense of the term, not as in the I’m cool with it sense of the term. Unfortunately I can’t stop myself.
Littlest’s first eight-weeks were typical newborn-level HARD. Like I didn’t know how I’d manage hard, in spite of the immediate cuteness of things like J holding him above his head, or pictures like these with my dad:
I wondered where the joy was and if I was really cut out for this—feelings, I assume, every mom has at some point or other.
But ever since he settled at around 8 weeks old I have been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like surely motherhood can’t be this good. I didn’t know I would love it this much. Colleagues have asked me frequently how things are going with the baby at home, and all I can say each time is “génial, il est trop mignon” (and get annoyed when they ask if he’s sleeping through the night, as if that’s all that counts).
I’ll keep crossing my fingers that the joy will continue, but I think maybe I can just conclude now that I love being a mom to this little boy, that motherhood has brought out something in me that I didn’t know was there.