ugh motherhood.

I struggle with this new life, being a mom, it's like being handed a rubix cube in a dark room and being told to solve it. In this scenario you LOVE this rubix cube like nothing you've ever loved before but that doesn't - actually - help.

I feel like I have to excuse myself, like I have to cover every negative remark with a more vibrant praise of motherhood, but being a mom is gnarly you guys. It's gnarly.

Everyday I wake up to my daughter cooing, and I hide in bed till those coos turn to whines, then I roll over and reluctantly start my day.

I try to tell myself to perk up, mornings are the best time with Charlotte, it's the time she practices her new sounds (mostly shrieks right now), it's the time she plays with me, gives me silly faces and shows me all her new tricks.

seriously though, look at this precious baby.

Morning, however, is also about two hours after she last woke me up. And I'm tired. And not a morning person at all. I often feel alone in this, in these moments of 'I love my daughter, but maybe 1 more year of NOT being a mom would have been cool'

Yeahhhhh, I said it! Don't get me wrong, I love my sweet girl, and after about 2 hours of being away from her I start going through mommy withdrawals. But when the days are long, and the nights happen in 2 hour increments, things tend to get a little frazzled and the idea of sleeping like a normal person leads me to a sleep-lusting place (hahahahahaha, ohhh man, I'm tired)

We (or at least I) Instagram and Pintrest our way through life, showing the highlights and putting a ironic spin on the less glamorous moments, - I haven't brushed my hair in three days but I did put on a little lip gloss so you can see how I'm still candidly acceptable - we crop out the spit up stains and #blessed, and run through one or two editing apps for a quick touch up before posting...

What you don't see is my inability to sleep train my baby,

You don't see me running in the pouring rain from the furthest parking spot at walmart with my baby half tucked under my sweater because I forgot the stroller.

My Rubix. <3

You don't see me passing out 5 minutes after the baby does, totally neglecting my husband who could probably go for some tlc.

And you don't see me laying in bed, hiding from the waking baby next to me, fighting through those few moments of 'this is my life now' as it hits you at a 100 miles an hour.

Maybe it's just me, and maybe I'm just REALLY not a morning person, but most likely the case is,
becoming a mom is insane.

Becoming a mother is something you just can't prepare for.

It's a Rubix cube in the dark that you love more than life itself.

And on that note:

Charlotte is 5.5 months old, she likes to fake cough when she wants attention, she's learned how to shriek and loves making sounds at the top of her lungs. She spit up on me for the first time and either pooped or peed on almost every outfit we took on our 3 day trip to the mountains for thanksgiving... she also has some CRAZY knots in the back of her hair, I'm trying my best to get them out but a snip may be in order.
I often call her phunkadoriehouston or toblorone, those are just her nicknames, I don't know why.

Let's talk about "the boob" (probably TMI if you're not a mom)

Get read for TMI, especially those of you who have not yet gone through the joys of breastfeeding..

Nursing is HORRIFYING. No one fully prepared me for the trauma that is feeding your child.

See, 'Lo was not partially fond of the boob at first. She had minor jaundice but was SO uninterested in the sustenance from my bosom that it spiked from level 6 to 17 in two days! So, the doctor told me I needed to pump.

Awesome! I still get to give my baby girl the stuff she needs but now I can stick it in a bottle and let one of her million aunts, uncles, grandparents or sleepy daddy feed her (which they all LOVE to do)
Needless to say, this sounded like a great loophole.

A little bit of backstory, in order to breastfeed I had to go through the ardous effort of getting off all of my psych meds. This included a HIGH dosage of mood stabilizers and anxiety meds, and under the careful eye of my long time psychologist (need a psychologist? I have a great recommendation) I was able to taper of safely, still, this was not fun.

I was, however, determined, to provide my baby girl with the best I could, which meant mothers milk.

Plus, my delusional, uninformed mind longed for the tender moments between mother and babe, sweetly cuddled against me, bonding in a way that only mothers get the chance to experience.

BULLLLLLLSHIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!

I'm calling it ladies.

Breastfeeding is horrifying.

3am, fussy baby, won't 'latch' on but is perfectly content to gum my inflamed nipple to death. I cringe.

My mother explained it best, she recalled to me the times when she would bring her baby to her chest, and just as the baby (there are 7 of us 'babies' by the way) was about to latch on, she would pull back in terror of the oncoming pain.

Now we're going to talk about pumping...

I thought I was getting off easy, she LOVES her bottle, her appetite is increasing, she's in perfect health, daddy gets the chance to bond with her too, it's great!

ohhhh haaaaaaaaaaaa!

2 weeks into pumping and I literally look at those little suction cups of doom like they are EVIL baby
robots who I've been forced into feeding, they even make this cruel sucking sound that scares me..

Anyways, at this point, the first 2-3 mins of pumping is literally black out pain. Sometimes I SWEAR I taste blood in my mouth. Other times, I'm positive I'm about to need to lunge for the diaper filled trash can to puke. The pain is just unreal.

I'd really enjoy the post-pumping perky nipple thing is it didn't make me want to claw my skin off every time something brushes against my chest.

Oh, and let's not forget, all this pain can be the equivalent to 2 ounces of milk.

TWO OUNCES!!!!!

Kinda makes me want to kill myself.

Ladies, I leave you with this...

It is perfectly acceptable to cry over spilt milk.
I lost half an ounce this morning, and I cried, and that cry was well deserved.