Friday, October 31, 2014

Steph Says: #momlife

Mommyhood. It's serious stuff.
Especially when the one who calls you Mama is this little rascal.

She does.

Rascal Mae is not a handful. She's about six handfuls. Personality plus, mile-a-minute, firing on all cylinders 12 hours a day. Thank sweet baby Jesus that she loves to sleep just as much as I do. Otherwise, we'd have problems.

Since accidentally becoming a Stay At Home Mom, or SAHM (and I say it in my head with this fancy southern drawl... sahhhhhhhm), I've really started to embrace this new life. At first, I was beyond depressed. Like sobbing-every-day mind-constantly-racing depressed. I felt like I was a failure by not "doing it all." Let me put it this way: as a child, I wasn't into baby dolls. I played with Barbies because Barbie was an independent woman. Barbie could do whatever she wanted. She could be a veterinarian one day and an astronaut the next, all while wearing some killer heels and rocking some fabulous hair. Let's not forget her incredible selection of stylish clothes. 

Yes, I follow @BarbieStyle on Instagram. Yes, I am a grown woman.

I wanted to be Barbie. I needed to be super mom, career woman, wife of the year, and Pinterest project queen all with a smile on my face and holiday-themed cupcakes on my table (that of course had a perfectly coordinating tablescape to match). Come to think of it, I did try to "do it all" during Rascal Mae's first year, and that's probably why I was such a complete mess. Postpartum depression is real, y'all. It's lonely and scary and it sucked the life out of me and my family. But that's not where we're going today. Back to SAHM life.

It took me a good three months to get used to this new situation. To realize that being a SAHM wasn't giving up. (Sidenote: Please don't get me wrong. This doesn't mean that I ever thought being a SAHM means YOU have given up! This is all me. My personal opinion about MYSELF. Not you other awesome SAHMs out there reading. You're still reading, right? I didn't morally offend you yet, did I?) I wanted to work. I needed to work. I truly believed, once upon a time, that having a family wasn't going to be part of my life plan because I was going to have a corner office overlooking Central Park and assistants to verbally abuse a la Miranda Priestly/Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada

It finally clicked that there are so many working moms out there who want to strangle me right now because I have this awesome chance to literally watch my little girl grow up before my very eyes, and I wasn't taking advantage of it. I was wallowing in self-pity.
Okay- so there are still moments of wallowing, but less often and less severe.

 Because I get to have breakfast with Beast every morning.

I get to have ice cream dates.

I get to take "usies." She loves them. Can't you tell?

I get to have bathroom pj dance parties.

I get to witness sidewalk chalk masterpieces.

I get to play dress-up with my very own living, breathing, giggling, toddling, kiss-giving, stress-causing, letter-learning, book-loving, six-handfuls, wouldn't-trade-it-for-the-world baby doll.

And that's SO MUCH better than being Teacher Barbie. 
Although I still wouldn't mind having her closet.

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