Today, I hit the wall, and the wall hit back.
Last night was good. Last night found me in a sparkly miniskirt and heels, my hair teased and my dopamine levels coursing high as I joined a bunch of ladyfriends for an 80s themed birthday party at Andrew Michael. There was wine, a crystal-studded microphone, and a baby eating pumped milk from a bottle several miles away.
So I suppose it was only fair that there was today.
I'm not sure what was worse - sitting at my computer in my nursing bra and underwear, screaming baby slung over my shoulder as I tried to finish up photoshop work for a client, one handed, already 10 minutes late meeting my mom who had graciously kept Harlow, or later that afternoon, still sans makeup, last night's teased hair now a frizzy ponytail, a crying baby again riding my shoulder as I tugged Harlow behind me a cart across Target, two ladies muttering a low OH GURRRL as our freakshow ambled by. All I know is that I got back in that 10,000 degree car, prayed that the baby wouldn't cook before we got home, and tried not to cry at the sad, wrinkled, exhausted face that stared back at me in the rear view mirror.
Caleb met me at the driveway and collected groceries, politely waiting until we had had a few moments to cool off from the heat before he asked me when, exactly, had I turned into a housewife from the 70s. Was it the canned pineapple? The bag full of frozen vegetables? The lemon in a bottle? I now recall conversations with my mom where I derided her for microwaving and depending so heavily on canned foods when fresh was such a better alternative and I want to take a time machine, go back to 2003, and punch me in the mouth. I love my mom for not doing so when she had the chance.
I know it's going to get better. That's my hard won wisdom from the first time around. But right now I am hobbled with the rookie's fear that better is a long, long time coming.