It seems as though all of my creativity is being expressed in my breast milk.
My daughter is eating it all, I swear.
Not that I mind giving it to her. She is welcome to have my creativity-laced, love-filled, warm Mama-milky. Welcome to it.
And I know you all say it gets better. I am counting on that. Because it's not just my creativity that's edible, apparently. It's also my patience. And maybe my sense of self.
I'm feeling a little hemmed in. Like a little baby chick that's all ready to come out. Wet down and sharp beak and peck-peck-peck at the shell that won't budge, if you know what I'm saying. If you don't, what I'm saying is that I'd like to take this kid for a walk around the neighborhood for longer than 10 minutes without the Level 4 Meltdown.
And please. know. this. When I look at her, I get filled up. She's perfect and beautiful and I know that it's not her, per se.
It's just that I've got nothing left over. Not right now. And despite my desire to shoe-horn another picture of the cute cutie into your computer, perhaps a better use of these 3 minutes (the ones right before she wakes up back there, in her co-sleeper and cries to be held and bounced, bounced, bounced all day) would be better spent *ahem* in the bathroom.
So, excuse me if you would.