About a week ago, at the darkest time of night, I held my little basher boy and sniffed his head and smiled. Although I was sore and sleepy, I was blissfully happy, and I took a moment to have a conversation with myself.
I said, "Self: Remember this feeling. You have a wonderful thing here. A healthy, possibly red-headed baby boy who eats and sleeps and poops and loves you. If the blues hit you in a few days, you'll know that it's all hormones. The depression is an illusion. It's only your wacky emotions that will have changed, not your actual life."
Then, a few days later, I started crying and couldn't stop. Hormones, man.
The good news is, I am married to Super Dad. He is my support. He is the punk's wrestle partner and the basher's protector. He looks out for me and won't let me wallow in tears for very long before he sets a course of action and forces me out of my funk. He took the two boys to the basher's doctor appointment last week so I could go out for sushi with my girlfriends. He has been right in the thick of the mess with me for the past two weeks, removing his ear plugs every night at 3 AM (or after the basher's second nighttime meal) so I could put in my ear plugs and enjoy four uninterrupted hours of sleep.
I love this guy.
And now I'm crying again. Someone slap me out of this!
Photos by Amy Gretchen.