Five weeks.

Baby #3 is five weeks old already. It feels like it’s been five years, and also, five minutes all at once. And you guys, I’m so fucking. . .

TIRED.

You thought I was going to say in love didn’t you?

No. Tired. I am fucking exhausted as fuck.

I mean, yes I am in love with my baby. Over the moon, practically first time mother level to be quite honest. My social feeds are ridiculous and phone’s memory has been evaporated by baby pictures. This little boy is so fucking CUUUUTTTTEEE.

But that’s not my point, today. He is adorable. I am delighted to be a mother again. But I am also, as you may have caught on—

TIRED. And overwhelmed. And doing too much. And working to keep my head above water every.single.day.

And that’s what I want to share, because, if you know me, you know I am a shit together person. I am messy in my own special variety of chaos, but at the end of the day, 8.5 times out of 10, I’m a shit together person.

You guys— I do not feel like a shit together person right now.

I feel like a hot fucking mess.

A hot fucking mess is not what this shit together person was shooting for here. I have already been a hot fucking mess twice with each of the first two kids and it wasn’t fun. I thought this time maybe I could just be. . . a mess.  Like just a regular mess, no modifiers required.

This person was shooting for being back to work at full capacity (not 1/8thish) at two weeks postpartum.  This person was sure she was prepared to balance her time equally between three children, to be snuggling with her husband in bed every night while the baby lay just at arm’s reach in his own bed. This person thought her belly would probably maybe possibly just flatten right out in a week, and that she’d be able to spend her working time with a baby lying quietly in her lap or at her side whilst she wrote magical things for clients and created profound programs for the studio. This person thought maybe this baby would be “a Sleeper.”

This person was, per usual. . . mistaken.

Here is what my day actually looks like.

You see that laundry pile on my bed? It’s been there for four days. I keep moving it around and somehow it never magically jumps into my closet and puts itself away. See my half painted toes? I haven’t had a pedicure in like… a year. See the baby on my lap on the nursing pillow and computer on my knees? I got 40 minutes like that, and the rest of the day I was bouncing, swaying, rocking, nursing and otherwise consoling my little screamer into slumber.

I haven’t peed by myself in days. Most of the time I can’t take a shower long enough to wash my hair unless my husband is home to hold the baby who has been fed and burped, then fed again, the stars are aligned, the moon is full, and a unicorn is jumping over a rainbow in the front yard.

My husband was sick last week and couldn’t hold the baby. You know how many showers I got then?

DO YOU? DO YOU?

No seriously, do you? I already can’t remember that far back. . .

See how mismatched my bedding looks? That’s because I have random blankets on it since my husband has half our regular ones on his floor bed. Yes. His floor bed. He’s on the floor and I’m in the bed with the baby. Because the baby didn’t sleep in his bed. Or his carseat. Or his stroller. Or his swing. Or his bouncer. Or any baby-holding-sleep-device ever made in the history of time. The baby slept on me. PERIOD.*

So we are in the bed. Husband is on the floor. Bed is messy. Laundry is messy. Closet is messy. Bathroom is getting scary. The kitchen looks like the staff went on strike mid-dinner prep, there are breakfast dishes still sitting on the table and the living room, tiny though it is, has morphed into an office/pumping room/lounge area/dining table/family viewing center/kleenex receptacle.

Today, I asked the oldest kid to help me with the trash and you know what she did? She took a trash bag out of the pantry, opened it, and THEN JUST SET IT DOWN NEXT TO THE TRASH AND WALKED AWAY.

I am behind on every single project for every single client. Yes, every single one. My list of things to do for the yoga studio has items now six weeks past due and it continues to grow. My gray roots have passed the one inch mark, and getting dressed in anything other than yoga pants makes me throw up in my mouth a little. 

THIS. THIS, is hot mess.

From the shit together person.

BUT- from the shit together person who is keeping it really real. Because no one needs another example of perfection. Life isn’t perfect and neither am I, and neither are you. Instead, I’m telling YOU, shit-together-people, and YOU hot-fucking-mess-people, and even YOU, hot-fucking-mess-with-your-shit-mostly-still-together-despite-the-odds-people, that:

You’re wonderful. You’re doing a great job. What you do is enough. Who you are, is enough. You’re a fantastic human, and what you’re up to right now — LIFE—  is just right.

Life is beautiful.

Life is real.

Life is a hot fucking mess, even when it has its shit together.

I am saying:

YOU GOT THIS.

As messy as it is, as neat as it was, as in between as it can be, you got this.

 

P.S. Check out these actual photos of my actual baby showing how much he actually dislikes not being held. 

* I used past tense because since last week we’ve made progress and things like sleeping in his own bed for a little bit are starting to happen. SQUEAL.

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