Eight months

He is so little. Such a wee little man. Yet his presence is massive, larger than the Rockies, only to me. He eclipses the moon, has the power to erase the sunshine and replace it with hailstorms galore, and then again replace those storms with the most blissful post-rain scent of cherry blossoms and steamy sidewalks. He is a part of me. I love it. And at times I curse myself for not being able to pull away. I am addicted. Attached. In love. I am a mother.

Eight months today. Is it good? Is it bad? It is amazing. Cliché, I know. But the absolute truth is that I bitch and whine about “my life being ruined and not having any ‘me’ time” but when I am presented with opportunities to flee from my motherly role for a few hours, I relapse. I make excuses, I procrastinate until it is too late to go. And if I manage to leave him behind, I rush home as quickly as possible. I rush through my run, my bike or my trip to the store. I refuse to engage in conversations, my eyes stay focused on task and never meet with any other human beings in utter fear that they may engage me in conversation and keep me away for even longer than need be. And when I return, and am greeted with the smile that shudders from his lips through his arms and even whips his legs into motion, when he is finally returned to my arms and grips onto my skin with his nails and toes and legs and entirety, only at that moment does my heart cease to race. I feel at home.

“I love him but…” I understand this statement now. I used to think of these mothers as heinous, thoughtless beings. How could they make the honest choice to have a baby and then complain about what life they left behind? Because they had no idea. I had no idea. Right before he was born I was making plans for how to leave him with a friend after a few weeks so I could get out on my own for a bike trip through the mountains. And then he was born and I realized I would not be leaving him for a very long time. I was responsible. I became irreplaceable as soon as he took a breath. I am grateful for the importance he has endowed upon me. I have many moments that I curse my lack of freedom and spontaneity. I feel as if I am restricted by bedtimes, naptimes, mealtimes, schedules and routines that he enjoys but cause my mind to swirl into a tornado of boredom. I am barely capable of making decisions for myself, let alone for a helpless infant, dog and myself. I am confused at every hour of the day. And therefore I love him BUT I would have done a few things differently before his birth. Every parent has their own list of ‘would have, should have, could haves’ and I will store mine away for the next few utterly dependent years. I love him but… I had no comprehension of the immensity of and limitations that this love would place on my life.

And here I sit. In my dirty running clothes, ten hours post run… well run that turned into a walk because he was not cooperating with the stroller on this given day. Then the day got away from me with nursing, mealtime, changes, cleaning, and so forth… here I sit in sweaty spandex. I initially sat with full intention of complaining about the futile tasks of motherhood that I was not prepared for but cannot bring myself to. I am a sucker for the little man. He may have shattered my old life the moment he took a breath of worldly air but he also breathed a whole new life into my stale being.