After days like today, weeks like the one past, I wonder how
I have enough energy left to brush my teeth at night. It’s a goddamn miracle I’m
even motivated enough to attempt to transcribe the bumbling busy thoughts in my
frazzled head. The thing is, as tired, stressed, burnt out, emotional as I may
be now/ten minutes ago/three days past, this is the easy life. Today. Right
now. It’s easy. It certainly doesn’t feel like it – but it is, and I continue
to repeat this mantra to myself against my will even when I want to smack
myself in the head for it.
Thing is, I’m pregnant again. Most of you, (if anyone indeed
is reading this), already know that because you stumble upon my blog because we
likely know one another in ‘real life.’ Some of you, maybe read my ramblings
from time to time, and may not know me personally per say, but know enough
about me based on what I’m willing to share here on this platform. And some of
you, are likely just phishing and posting wing ding comments about ‘how to get
more likes,’ or something. But yeah, knocked up. Bun number two. Due five days after the first kiddo's second birthday this coming May.
I’m happy about the baby, of course, but since I’ve been
down this path of pending motherhood/actual motherhood before, I know what to
expect. Or at least have a pretty good idea of what’s in store. That being
said, if what’s in store for me in five months is what I’ve been wrestling this
week – this is the easy life. Baby number one, (who am I kidding, H is no
baby), doubled his teeth count over the past few days – five to ten, including
his molars. Blah, blah, blah, all parents gripe/know the terrors (or maybe not
if they’re lucky) of teething, big deal. But tornado boy, (because that’s what
he is now), is zipping around the house at top little boy speeds, tripping over
his own feet, bonking his head, speaking like a parrot with a slight speech
impediment (ch’lihips, bewbsh), and he’s like the Tasmanian devil – when he’s
healthy and NOT in pain. So throw in a wimp with no pain tolerance with
something I’d even cry about after having gone through one labor, and you can
imagine the Sassana household has not been a very enjoyable one this past week.
Our little dude used to go down at 6 pm, and then 7 pm. And lately this week? I’m
lucky if he passes out when I’m ready for bed at 9:30. So siyanara to relaxing
in bed with my husband and watching crap on Netflix. Even this, though, I’m ok
with. I mean, it’s parenting. It’s what I signed up for, right? So I’m just
trying to take it one day at a time and consider this my last vacation of my
life forever. Because when I have two little boys running around, I’ll be
counting my lucky stars if I’m able to ever shower again.
But I digress, it sounds like I’m just
whining/bitching/ranting about motherhood and all the hard work that comes with
it. And maybe I am. I can do that, right? If I really wanna get whiny, I’ll
throw in the fact that my clothes are officially no longer beginning to fit and
I’m sick of battling killer migraines if I don’t indulge in a daily caffeine
fix. And I miss booze. Ohmygod do I miss booze. It's the holidays! Open bars at work events, swimming in wine to escape family shin digs. But sure, I'll take that Sprite. The stereotypes of second pregnancies are real. First time around the block,
I swore off coffee like it was a cardinal sin. I never ate an ounce of ham, and
I counted every ounce of water I consumed. I read every parenting book under
the sun, and stressed about every weekly update like it was my bible. Now? I
show up to the appointments/ultrasounds. I generally take pretty good care of
myself, but I’ll be damned if I’m sacrificing ALL caffeine for another five
months. I haven't indulged in any alcohol (I'm not that bad), but it's safe to say I've been much more relaxed this time around. And of course, because I'm not ready yet - this pregnancy is FLYING by. The first time naps were included in the pregnancy
deal. This time? With a toddler around? HA. HA. HA. HA. But anyway. . .
I might be a little (ok, a lot) tired. And stressed. And
snippy. And feeling sorry for myself. And bitchy. Ok, that’s normal. Other moms
of young kiddos I speak to happen to share my non-robotic real human tendencies,
especially those expecting again. So I don’t feel bad about it. And even when I’m
‘mad’ at my 19 month old, as soon as he offers me up a sloppy snotty nosed wet
open kiss or a big toothy grin, I melt like butter. He’s my baby. Always will
be. And I’m his ‘mama.’
It’s times when I can’t sleep at night, not the times when
he’s yowling in my ear or refusing to lay down, but the times after I finally
win the ‘I’m the mom you’re the child now go to sleep’ battle – (although is it
really winning if he’s succeeding in keeping me up/annoyed?) – when I’m laying
against my cheap ass body pillow, struggling to find comfort with my bulging
belly and million mile a minute mind, that things begin to come in perspective.
Either I manage to calm myself down knowing that whatever menial tasks await
aren’t really that big a deal, or he assures me everything is ok when I hear the calming
rise and fall of his toddler snores/breaths. But recently, I was having one of
my more anxiety ridden nights where I found myself worrying about his future –
and hoping to god he makes smarter decisions than I did when I was young. I’m
not talking childhood. Or even teenage years. But the twenties. And I guess
late teens? I didn’t really have a close relationship with my mom growing up as a teen for her to confide in me in her
mishaps/experiences, and my only other sibling is 15 years my senior and male.
So role models weren’t really a thing for me and I didn’t really have any
mentor type relationships to talk to either on a personal scale. So it was just me, naïve small
town girl, trying to find my identity, struggling, for a few rocky years once I
was suddenly thrust into ‘adulthood.’ I didn’t ever do anything TOO stupid.
Just the usual dumb shit, and I always cleaned up my own messes. If anything,
the only repercussions made were towards myself – emotionally, whatnot. But
they scarred. And I wish to goodness some days I could go back in time and give
myself a super swift kick in the ass and beat myself down before I could act
like such a fool. But bygones are bygones and I turned out just fine. And
instead of letting these thoughts/memories of painful ‘jesus Jodi you were such
a fucking idiot,’ bog me down, I realized – shit. Every shitty thing I’ve ever
done – to myself or others, or every time I’ve embarrassed myself or stumbled
in my own life path, it doesn’t matter. Because they all led me here – and no
matter how moronic I may have been however long ago, he makes up for it. This
child, my son. He’s my redemption. Not to get all holy here, because honestly I’m
not even a religious person, but I look at him as a symbol of a higher power.
Not him, personally, I’m not the mom who thinks her kid is really baby jesus or
something, but the fact that I now have something to live for, a purpose, a
meaning, a more fulfilling ‘why.’ It’s all for him. I may or may not make a
difference in the world. People may or may not remember me after I’m gone. I
might or might not contribute to society. I don’t really care – to be honest. I
did when I was younger, all those pipe dreams and aspirations of doing god knows
what for notoriety – fuck that. Now I KNOW I will make a difference. I can’t
control the world, or even my own household, or my son, for that matter. But I
matter. I make a difference. In my son and future son’s lives. I’m their
mother, and I’m making a personal choice and investment in being as present and
loving as possible. And hopefully steering them towards however they choose to
lead their lives. Maybe I can’t/won’t save the world, but who knows? Maybe my
kiddos can. Or maybe they won’t. But I can at least do my damndest to make sure
they’re happy and respectful young men, and in that alone, I know I will lead a
more fulfilling meaningful purpose than all the moronic shit I pulled in the
past. So I forgive myself. Whenever I think of dumb 20 something Jodi whatnots,
I don’t think twice. Dumb 20 something Jodi got herself to where she’s at now.
And even though I’m tired, cranky, bloated, angry, whiney, pregnant and overall
feeling awful and sorry for myself 80% of the time, I love the shit out of my
son and family, and while I may begrudgingly crawl out of bed at 3am for a
sippy of milk and resent the situation, it’s for something more important than
myself. And I’m grateful for that. I may not have the freedom and liberty to
take a shit with the door closed. Or a shower every day. Let alone a date with
my husband or enjoy a dinner without inhaling my food, but coming home to my
son (soon to be sons) and husband, disgruntled or not, sure makes this chapter
much more worth living than not. Even the days where I inadvertently eat boogers off my son's cheek after going in for a small kiss on the cheek.
So this is the easy part. The part where I’m as young as I’ll
ever be ever again. The part where I have energy, youth, some looks remain. I
complain when I get five hours of sleep. I bitch about chasing my single
toddler son out of the kitty litter or having a meltdown in public. There is
one of him/them. Soon there will be two. And that will be not be the easy part.
But as nervous as I am – something tells me not to sweat it. Because with the
double efforts there will be double rewards and I can only imagine the
fulfillment of love and family I will experience once our family is complete.
Sappiness/ranting/rambling aside, it’s 8:41 pm. My son hasn’t
gone to bed this week any earlier than 9 the past few days, so I’m going to
sign off and try to enjoy the peace and quiet while I can. Soak up the leisure,
if you will, before there’s TWO of them.
