I've been submerged in baby land for nine days now, and it's done. I drank the juice; I've changed my name; I bought new Nike Airs. I now use my arm tattoos as memory devices, for the sole purpose of remembering the last breast I fed Langston with.
I'm not hip anymore. I want to go out, do things, you know, but I haven't gone out for a drink in almost a year, and I don't care.
I don't eat sugar either. This gets me going.
I love my post pregnancy body. Seriously. I like my shape; I've lost 24 of the 34 pounds in baby weight, in nine days, and my belly is close to flat again; Tim is amazed. I feel like a super hero, like my body is this wild, wondrous thing. Every morning I wake up, it's even stronger than the day before.
That gets me going,
but that's a bore. I hung out with Langston all day. I opened all the windows for the storm. I bathed him, put lotion on his skin; all his homemade blankets smell like him.
I cleaned the house; I wear micro shorts and button ups, clothes I did not wear before. I'm never lonely; I work even more,
all of this gets me going,
but I know it's such a bore. My husband is the sexiest man alive, even more so now that he's a father, and he makes these jokes that slay me, jokes that make me laugh for days.
Last night, I fell asleep at 8p, and I woke at 2a to find Langston in his bedroom, and my husband asleep on Langston's bedroom floor, all so I could sleep and they would not wake me.
So I woke them; I brought them back, and Tim told me about his and Langston's battle of will over bottle versus breast milk, and how one wanted it more, so Langston took the bottle, and I got to sleep in.
All of this gets me going,
but I know it's such a bore. I think Tim freaked Langston out with that bottle last night because today he keeps gorging himself on breast milk, spitting up repeatedly, and then he makes his monster sounds, begging for more milk until I distract him with other things like
rain clouds and rattles, punk rock songs I still love, sung by me, in a slower melody than I sang before. Everything is sensory;
It's technicolor. It's straight forward, it's deep, it wants to right itself constantly. It's rhyming picture books; Tim's bear voice, his songs on the guitar. It's all a bore, but a world different than before.