Two years ago today, I went into labour with our son, D.
I remember it so clearly. The pain — the friggin’ goddamn evil PITOCIN-INDUCED PAIN. The crying. The, uh, insisting I was going to die (yes, I’m dramatic).
If you haven’t yet read my birth story, take a gander. It’s terrifying. And there are horrible poo incident descriptions, so you know it is TMI and oh-so-real.
I may remember the labour clearly — TOO clearly — but it’s hard to remember what came before it.
Two years ago today, I was not yet a mother. I was just a pregnant chick with no idea what she was in for very shortly.
It’s bizzare to try to remember what is felt like before I was a mother. I remember working. I remember the godawful long walks to the bus and from the bus, and the endless rides on the bus. I remember crafting and watching TV in the (very quiet) condo.
I remember eating in restaurants and going shopping. I remember having the money to buy random crap I wanted, like a new skirt or makeup or shoes. I remember having uninterrupted conversations with Darling Husband.
I remember complaining I had “a bad night” if I woke up once and found it mildly difficult to get back to sleep.
Two years later, my life is harder in a lot of ways.
But it’s also so, so, so, SO much better.