When (if) Eloise finally goes down for a nap I am frantic with a list of a dozen things I want to accomplish. Like eat. Vacuum the floors. Update the blog. Do the dishes. Pump some breastmilk. Sleep. Exercise. No, really, I should vacuum. Or maybe clean the bathtub. Take out the recycling. The laundry. Book that massage. Fill in her nursery application. All before she wakes up. And I freeze as soon as I put her down trying to figure out in what order should I do these things to best maximize the undetermined amount of free time my daughter is granting me. Will it be 10 minutes? 3 hours? Why don't these babies come with a timer???
How bad is it? Once my multi-tasking to eat and take out the recycling got some wires crossed which is how I found myself standing outside in the middle of the garden holding a banana with no idea why. I am one sleepless night away from being that mother in mismatched slippers wearing a cross between a muumuu and a giant burp cloth in the canned fruit aisle asking strangers if they sell stamps here.
I never wanted to be one of those mothers who can only talk about their children. I always pictured me to be a well rounded, funky mother, who could just as easily shoot the shit about the latest novel to make the shortlist of the Man Booker prize as she could her babies, well, shit. Turns out I can't. Even more surprising is I don't want to. I honestly thought at this point in motherhood I'd have at least 2 or 3 blog posts about cooking or a movie I saw. Look around people...I am obsessed and this blog is proof. I mean, why the hell would anyone want to talk about some stupid book when we could be talking about my baby. Have you seen her? She can poop and fart - at the same time! She can smile and cry within seconds of each other. She can hold onto my finger and lick my face when she's hungry. Why would anyone in the history of the universe want to talk about anything else than my daughter Eloise?
I am aware that I am delusional. I see your eyes glazing over when I discuss the different colors and textures of the goo that comes out of my kid's butt. It's the same look I get when you actually answer my half-assed attempt to discuss that novel that I don't really care about. But believe me it is not my fault. It's good old Mother Nature pulling a fast one on us again.
One day you're living your life as a grown-up. Going to work. Meeting up with friends over a pint (or 6). Trying that new restaurant every one's been raving about. Sleeping in. Getting your nails done. Then blam! You're a mother. And you have a blob of a tiny person who can do nothing on their own bar filling up a diaper and crying and they need YOU and only you to survive. So how do you go from living your fulfilled adult life to all of the sudden caring for an infant? How do you change your life so drastically from freedom to complete slavery to one person? Mother Nature flips a switch in you, that's how. The baby blinders go on, the hormones start raging, you fall so deeply in love that not only do you step up to the task of caring for this child and leaving your old life behind, but you wake up every day excited to do so. And sure, there are moments you miss the old life. A few hours down at the local does sound nice. But you know you'll choose the dirty diaper over the pint of ale every time.
How could you not?