A year ago today, I woke up a mother. If I’d been a bit more organised about writing this post, I would’ve published it yesterday and phrased it, “A year ago today, baby was born.”
But things are obviously a bit unpredictable and complicated with a one-year-old.
A hell of a lot has changed in that first year, and that’s not counting all the extra stuff we had on top of having a baby – her heart surgery, moving house, changing jobs, surviving a pandemic. Our little red potato with the black eyes has grown into a loud, happy girl on the cusp of walking and desperate to talk, a proper small person in her own right, definitely the boss of the household.
I’m sure there’s a lot of profound things I could say about feeling more and more comfortable identifying as a mother (a label I often thought I’d never be able to take, and one which has Many Connotations in general conversation), about constant change being the new normal (she’ll always be getting older and bigger and doing new things), about how COVID has made it a necessity to be flexible (we saw her grandmother the day before, and are seeing her great-grandmother in two weeks, and it all counts as her birthday as far as we’re concerned).
But I am very very tired. Of course I am. I have a one-year-old. And there’s always more to do – like get her 12-month immunisations because vaccination is really, really important, people.
So I’ll get to those things in time. For now, mama (and a rather over-stimulated baby) needs a rest.