I’ve been mulling over this post for awhile and I knew I needed to get it out of my sleep-deprived head and onto paper…. or my blog. You see, when Bud was born, after the first couple of months he was a dream sleeper for the most part. Barring growth spurts or teething, my man would sleep 12 hours. Plus, he took a few solid naps throughout the day. So, I continued about as normal. I would strut my ever-so-confident stuff with make-up on, clothes that matched and were actually clean, and a smug swagger that thinking about it makes me want to transport myself back two years and uppercut “First Baby Martha” right on the chin. I thought I was Superwoman. We’d host parties, dinners, and I vacuumed… a lot. We talked about wanting four kids.
So….. this is the fall that pride keeps talking about eh?
Superwoman has left the building.
I now have a child who is reluctant to fall into our schedule, reluctant to sleep, reluctant to nap. I don’t strut, I stumble. I don’t wear make-up and when I do, it looks like the After picture of the “your brain on drugs” campaign. Clean clothes…. I’m sorry I’m laughing too hard to even make a joke here. Vacuum is reserved for the panicked run-through before someone stops by. And I haven’t been nearly as good of a friend as I’d like and I liken myself now to a bear in hibernation. Now, we talk about how we might have a two clown rodeo because sweet Lord, I’ve almost made the appointment to have my tubes tied about 50 times and tell them to double-knot it just in case. And my smug swagger has been replaced by a tired, humble mama who is on her knees clinging desperately to every good and true blessing in my life instead of the sleeplessness.
Superwoman has left the building.
You see, she has been replaced by me. And I’m getting to the point where I’m ok with that. I know there will come a time when I’ll sleep again, host dinner parties, and not look like an Amanda Bynes mug shot. I have to say “Sleep is not my idol” on repeat in my head all day long. I pray that I can laugh when he wakes up 45 minutes into his nap on cue instead of cry. And rejoice because oh my gosh, he’s healthy and happy. I had lost sight of that and was letting sleep dictate my entire view of the world. Shame.
Bennett Rippy is the happiest damn kid in the world. Seriously y’all. I stumble into the nursery at 3am while he’s crying and as soon as I cross the threshold of the crib, he bursts into a huge smile. Are you serious?! God give me joy like that (preferably not at 3am but minor detail for now). He is healthy and growing like a champ. He isn’t in a hospital bed, I don’t have to worry he’s crying because he’s hungry, and I don’t have to worry if he’s cold because we live in a house with heat.
I sat on the couch with my friend Carman the other day and we talked about how its hard to strike that balance of admitting its a hard season but also acknowledging the blessings. Gratitude in the storm. That even when I might feel like I’m on one of those fun-house bridges where the floor is shaking underneath me, I claim gratitude that there is an eventual end to the fun-house filled with cotton candy and kettle corn. And I’m learning to claim gratitude that I’m even in this fun-house to begin with.
So, there it is. The fall that came after Pride. The stumble that came after the swagger. And the grateful, humble mama that came after Superwoman.