Imagine the horror you feel when you realize you've only posted 7 times in June, 5 times in July, and so far, 5 times this month. I should seriously find some material to write about. Maybe I'll have a baby, or get pregnant... Oh wait. In hopes that I post a little more often, and in the spirit of "Random Thoughts Thursday" I've decided to have a "Confessional Tuesday." I dedicate this day to confessing all of the silly, and yes, sometimes stupid things I've done in my life...make that this week. So to my 3, maybe 4 faithful readers, I hope that these confessions make you realize that no matter what you do, you're always fifty steps ahead of me.
You, of course, are invited to join in. And if you hate it, I will crawl into a hole with Chloe, and only come out when I have this next baby, or to get a piece of no-bake cheesecake.
Confession No. 1: Mother's Instinct
Let the soul cleansing begin.
Mothers have that instinct about their babies. From the second they are born, they memorize their face, they know their smell, their cry, what they need. You name it, the mother knows it. It's natural. It's the way God intended.
For everyone, but me.
After I had Chloe, she stayed in our hospital room quite a bit. I fed her, cuddled her, we stared at her, watching her every little movement, amazed that our genes could actually create a cute baby. But after labor, you also need a nap. So we'd send her to the nursery and doze off into a peaceful sleep. The second day we were there, I wanted to visit her in the nursery. After 20 minutes of convincing myself that my rear-end wouldn't fall off, we headed that way. An hour later we finally made it. We walked in. My eyes searched among the 15 other babies for my precious bundle. I found her. My beautiful girl. As I walked closer my smile got bigger and my heart started beating faster. Right as I made it to her, Jason pulled my arm and we kept walking. "She's over here."
My first failure as a mother. I didn't recognize my own daughter. In fact, after closer inspection, the BOY I thought was my daughter was actually Hispanic. Had it been the olden days, I probably would have left with a lovely Hispanic boy. Actually, I probably would've had the baby on the kitchen table, drinking whiskey for the pain, but that's beside the point.
Just so you know, if you ever bring this up publicly, I will blame this whole mistaken identity thing on drugs. I was heavily sedated after I had her. Okay, maybe I wasn't, but I'll never tell anyone else that.
I leave you with a picture of my sweet, pale-skinned, probably will never have a tan, definitely not Hispanic, girl. This was right after she was born. Poor kid's stuck with me.
For today, my soul has been cleansed.