Four weeks have flown by.
For four weeks I've struggled with learning "the ropes" of parenting a newborn. I finally (with the help of Crazy Pills, thank you very much) feel like I'm getting the hang of it and am a little more confident in my abilities as a mother.
Truth be told, I was not doing well the first couple of weeks. Learning to sacrifice after 32 years of being set in my own OCD ways was quite a blow to my little world.
I could talk about the sickening pain of extreme constipation after a c-section.
I could talk about the absolute torture of breastfeeding.
I could entertain you with thoughts of sleepless nights and diarrhea explosions.
I could write about the major postpartum depression that consumed me (and still does somewhat).
I could tell you of the time I put my socks and shoes on while sitting on the toilet just to maximize time while she was screaming to be picked up.
I could discuss how motherhood has taught me to become ambidextrous while eating cold food and talented at keeping a pacifier in a wailing baby's mouth with my big toe, while simultaneously blow drying my hair.
I could talk about the pain of breastfeeding while putting on makeup just to make the little one happy and to avoid being late at the doctor's office.
I could write about the time I almost left the house without brushing my teeth and got out of the shower without rinsing the conditioner out of my hair.
I could tell you about the lack of freedom and requirement of an army of resources just to venture into the outside world.
Of course, motherhood comes with many sacrifices...most of them I knew about prior to birth and most of them I sacrifice willingly.
However, there is one sacrifice that I was not prepared for. One that I have lived with ever since I can remember and really don't have any desire to give up. One that has caused me great discomfort now that it's power has all but ceased in our house.
The ceiling fan.
I am the world's hottest sleeper on record ever since Peanut busted my water bed at the seams and controlling the temperature of the bed was no longer an option. I sweat like a pig, wish I had a window unit directly blowing on my body, and I just might resort to finding mud to roll around in. Now that Kallie is sleeping in our room, I can no longer have the ceiling fan on mega high because we really would prefer her to not blow away in the middle of the night. For the first week I didn't even turn it on which is nothing short of a miracle. Now, it's on the second slowest speed...which might as well not even exist, if you ask me. It's killing me, people.
But, it's all for a good cause. Soon, the ceiling fan will roar again in our room. Soon, I will not awake in a puddle of sweat (and sweaty milk). I will be reunited with my love and life will return to normalcy.
But, please, somebody write it in the record books for all the world to see...I have gone four weeks without a ceiling fan.
A mother will sacrifice everything, I tell you.
