When we began packing for the hospital, in anticipation if our daughters arrival, we had things like a birth plan, cord blood registration, music, a new outfit for our daughter (and me) to come home in, and people to call all organized.
It was a perfectly laid plan
That didn’t go at all the way it was supposed to.
I left my birth plan at the bottom of my bag, I ate popsicles instead of meditating, and my husband was wandering the halls talking to other expectant parents, finding the Morgue, making use of a private bathroom he found on another floor, and creating bat symbols with the doctors huge light.
Raising a child has been a lot like this.
Minus the private bathroom.
The baby books and articles readied us for breastfeeding, swaddling, late nights, and hearts full.
But we got a mouth that couldn’t latch, an esophagus that wasn’t formed, a whole year of projectile vomiting, and Post Partum Depression.
Everyone struggles… it’s expected that the road we map out doesn’t go as planned all the time, especially when there are children involved.
We were ready for the terrible twos and potty training, gaining independence, and growing pains.
But there are no books that can ease you into the hell that is three.
Two is a picnic compared to this glorious age and I’ve heard four is going to put me in the fetal position.
Thumb sucking, crying for my mom, and begging for mercy.
This is parenting and it’s every man for himself.
Throw away the books.
They can’t save you.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.