The Calvary isn't Coming

When I was pregnant with my oldest, I was solely focused on the birth. Through all the fundus measurements and heartbeat checks at the obstetrician's office I thought only about the moment where I'd be resting on the delivery table and the doctor would hand by baby to me. After that, I figured there would be some kind of “recovery period” where my husband and mother would help me and the baby. And then, we'd be back to our routine. I envisioned us spending my summer-long maternity leave taking long walks in the “Adventurer” stroller I'd purchased with the wheels that looked as they belonged on an all-terrain vehicle. I couldn't wait to change his outfits numerous times so he could wear all the cute matching ensembles he got at his baby shower. Well, the “recovery period” has lasted seven years – another child – and counting. My husband and mother were a great help. But there is no amount of help in the world that will restore you to your routine. From birth on out, it's rock and roll with it. The first three months is a sleep deprived fog punctuated by panicky trips to the doctors office where the doctor tells you to bring your baby with a strange rash in the back door so he won't come in contact with the other sick kids in the waiting room. You'd give anything to sleep more than two hours in a row. I remember lying in bed, hearing my son's cries in the dark yet again and thinking a million dollars would be what I'd pay to be able to go back to sleep. But then he grew a little older and started to sleep through the night. I remember longing for the assurance that I'd get to take a shower everyday. But then he grew a little older and he developed a schedule. I figured out how to bathe during his nap time. I figured out how to apply make up with him in one hand and a compact in the other. There are babysitters, day care providers, spouses and grandparents to help. But there is no calvary that restores you to the old you. It's up to you. And you do figure it out.