What you are REALLY in for (aka: holy sh*t)

Keeping up with my theme of having a hard time this week, I was thinking about all the things you read and watch to prepare for the transition into motherhood and all that it entails. P.S. you can burn every book you ever bought, because none of them tell you the cold hard reality of what you are signing up for, hence the tougher transition for people like I. It sounds awful I am sure, and I have to send out a disclaimer that it is still the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. But I freely admit that on some days, it’s the worst. So keeping it real, here is the real “What to expect” Regan style.

You are going to be an emotional wreck

I don’t know if this is due to hormones or lack of sleep, probably both. But prepare to let the world’s pain and suffering enter into your soul. If you thought you may have had this symptom before, multiply it by a thousand. I cried the other day at a picture of an Orangutan injured and shielding itself from the evil pain inflicted by the Palm Oil industry and burst into a full episode, crying “Why? Why would anyone hurt that poor Orangutan? Someone do something! This world is so sad!” The day was a wreck after that.

You will lose all sense of modesty. And dignity.

This is directly related to times of severe frustration. I started out totally modest, I had a nursing cover (hand sewn by my amazingly crafty mother) and loads of other ways to cover myself in public. Then introduce a scenario where you are stuck on a plane and strapped to your seat and the baby is crying like crazy and you know that some boob action will help. And you are fumbling to find where you packed things and then when you try to use them it just suffocates him and gets in the way and the crying is louder and you say “f**k it” and throw the cover down to the ground and just whip it out. Screw it. You have an emergency situation, people can just look away and deal with it. There is no room to be squeamish in this battle. This is war people!

You are going to look and smell like a doped up lunatic.

Sorry to break the bad news, but from this point forward you will be perpetually in sweat pants, 2 days un-showered, smelly, no makeup, with baby food and spit up on your clothes and in your cleavage. Sadly, spit up always seems to be aimed for your chest, I don’t know why. If you have a good night, maybe you can get away for a quick hose down, but I promise you that more often than not you will be shopping at Wholefoods looking like you never thought you would ever be seen in public, and you won’t give a damn. It’s survival of the fittest.

You are going to have severe anxiety about loud noises and sleep time.

This one is awful. Once you put the baby down, night or day, you will have the anxiety hit you like a ton of bricks. Suddenly a leaf blower man revs it up outside and you find yourself running at full speed to tell him to get the hell away from your house. Or a friend comes by for a visit and has an extremely loud laugh and you think “Shut the **** up!!! Don’t you realize I have a moment of freedom here?? Please in the name of god, don’t wake the beast!” It’s awful. I find myself putting away dishes and I drop a fork and think, “Why don’t you just go up and shake him awake Regan, you dumb idiot!”

You are going to hate your husband.

Obviously not all the time, but the hatred will be there, full form, like a raging lunatic. In moments where the day is hard, and he comes home after you cleaned the whole house, and he makes a snack and literally destroys the kitchen in 5 minutes. Hatred happens. Or when you are up all night with the baby, and he wakes up in the morning and complains how tired he is and how he just couldn’t seem to get into a deep enough sleep last night. Hatred happens. Read my previous blog on babies and marriage if you would like a more detailed description on this one. It’s a brutal one.

There is no such thing as a weekend anymore.

With most jobs, you work your ass off all week and then the weekend comes and you are like, “Wow, tough week. I’m beat. Gonna just relax and sleep in and lay around this weekend.” Nope. As long as you have a boob or two, your weekend is exactly the same as the week was, zero difference at all. Up at the crack of dawn, working the same schedge as always. Down time has actually not happened for me yet, not for one day, in almost a year. Dude, no wonder we are crying at the injured Orangutan!

We, as women, are serious troupers and extremely hard workers when we are tested. I think we can be the only ones with the stamina to handle a job of this type of magnitude. So I am proud of myself, I am. And proud of every single mother I see. If I see a mother out and about looking put together, I take my hat off to you because I know how much extra work that takes. When I see a mother in the throws of a frustrating moment and the boobs get whipped out, hat off to you as well. I would die if I didn’t have my fellow mother’s to bond with on all of these issues, it’s like therapy. No way is the wrong way. That’s what I mean by being at war, we just gotta get through it together. Most of the time, in hindsight, it’s pretty funny. Most of the time.

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