It looks like five Netflix originals and forgotten sushi in the fridge. An opened bottle of beer, missing three sips. A bathroom that is too far away. A scar I can barely see. Bruising where it shouldn’t be. And a lot of time avoiding mirrors.
There’s a toddler that isn’t too sure if he likes me anymore. We bought him more cars. But chocolate is better. He kisses “babee seester” for our applause and camera. I fantasize about their future adventures. He tries to hold her hand.
The husband had his bike stolen. Again. He seems too happy to notice. Having a daughter suits him nicely. He wants to take dancing lessons.
There are plenty of gorgeous friends that stop by bearing gifts of pink dresses and adult conversations. I cry into both.
There’s a maternity nurse, many midwives, and a doctor or two. The doorbell doesn’t stop ringing. They are direct and Dutch and we differ on things. But we all care immensely about the health of my child so I allow them to stay and drink my tea.
The moments only I see. When I am peeking around her swaddle or over by boob. A much different baby than the one before — she dares to sleep through the night. They make me wake her.
It’s the joy in seeing my perfect mom, my stunning sister, my ever-amazing mother in law. It’s the pain of not knowing when Evelyn will meet the rest of her family. The expat dilemma. An unsatisfied beast.
It’s trying to write, but all the words suck big? Big suck? Words too suckful? Get your mind out of the gutter and type something useful, woman.
It looks like someone left spaghetti on the walls. The newborn euphoria is waning. Two kids ruling the house. And crooked nipples.
But. That. Smile.
The first outside doctor appointment. An exhale. Fat baby, good news.
Brother’s kisses are now conditional. Jealousy appears. Mama arms and heart are heavy.
Doc gives the green light to work out (ha!), hold my tot (yay?), and naughty time (may I sub this for more sleep time?).
I can’t feel my tummy. No, really. It’s numb. Dimply, in the worst way. Cesareans be wack.
The happiest baby I have ever seen. Instagram would agree.
The house always smells like poop. I would light a candle, but that’s way too much responsibility.
Seeing them together is everything. She looks like the husband. My son looks like me. God is sneaky.
It looks like we need a bigger place. Rolls on rolls on rolls between rolls. And carefully timed out beverages with Gin.
I am pretty sure I can actually taste the sound of her cry. Something sour.
But then there are giggles. Something sweet.
Confidence I didn’t know I could have with a child. Anxiety that vacations.
Still sleeping through the night and people seem angry. But my son juggles at dawn. Balance.
Days are blurry. I need all the dolls. Terribly lonesome for my mom.
I skip baths. Tired more than I realize. Showing my boobies around Amsterdam, but not getting paid. Only Evie laughed at that joke.
Hair is falling out, but I have never been so happy.
To be continued…