The past 7 days have been a chaotic whirlwind. There were two different sets of house guests over the weekend, Catch threw her back out and is surviving now with a nightly dose of muscle relaxers, I was inundated at work, and Charlotte is an absolute tornado of activity.
I am exhausted. I feel it in my bones. I want so badly to just mentally check out, but that’s sort of frowned upon when there’s a 29-inch Tasmanian devil crawling across the kitchen.
I remember idealizing Mother’s Day before Charlotte. When I was trying to get pregnant, Mother’s Day was a painful reminder of what I didn’t have, and all I could see about the day were champagne toasts at brunch and mother daughter pedicures. When I was finally pregnant, I told myself that next year would be my year–my first Mother’s Day. I imagined how special it would be.
The reality is that we’re going to spend our weekend making appearances with our families so that the grandmothers and great grandmothers have their photo ops with baby girl. Like every holiday, we’ll probably spread ourselves too thin. I’ll stress about Charlotte’s nap times, and Catch and I will probably bicker with each other because we’re overtired and sick of running around.
And you know what? That’s okay. Because now that I have Charlotte in my life, every day is Mother’s Day.