My stomach is stretched and my body is healing. My makeup, if any, isn’t blended, and I think I’ve officially gone gray. I carry three bags and have no idea what’s in any of them. I’ve traded cheap beer for cheap wine, perfume for spit-up. I eat once a day, and it’s usually while balancing a nursing baby. I cry about the same amount. I’ve always been a good crier.
Once dressed in head-to-toe black, you wouldn’t find a single flower on my underwear, and now my closet is an urban garden. I gave up dedicating a chunk of my day in hopes of capturing a fire selfie, I’m not the first one I look at in a photo anymore. I ask myself “who am I?” more than once a day. I smile a whole lot. Man, this baby got me chucked up! I’m a mama, and I’m the happiest, best version of myself.
Soon, we’ll talk about how he got here, but for now…he’s here, and I’m whole.