I'm just gonna start this off with a little disclaimer. Which I shouldn't have to do, but I was once accused of appearing as if I didn't love my kids, so I'm just gonna throw this out there. I LOVE MY KIDS. They are my everything. My heart. My soul. I can't imagine my life without them and if I lost them, I'd lose myself. That being said ...
Emery is not the baby I was expecting.
I said it.
I had visions of cuddles and giggles and sweet baby smells and while I get those all occasionally, it's not nearly as much as I thought. Emery is just not a happy person. From day one. He came into this world with a vengeance and he's been at it ever since. He is never content. I'm not exaggerating. NEVER. Even when he's being held, he has a scowl on his face and fidgets and grunts and complains. If you lay him on the floor, he'll get mad and roll to his belly. But then he gets mad that you let him roll on his belly. If you hold him, you better hold him the right way or he will arch his back and scream. Not cry. Scream.I've started to dread nursing him because he flails and kicks and grabs and scratches and pulls away and gnaws down. He's a neanderthal, people. Totally archaic. Beastly.
I love him. I do. He's the perfect addition to our family. He's so deliciously chunky and every time I see him (regardless of his current state of anger), I smile. But I'm tired. He doesn't sleep. 15-20 minutes during the day and now we're doing this thing where he sleeps for 3 hours at night and then is just awake all night wanting to eat. It's exhausting. He doesn't easily fall asleep, either. He has to be manhandled. Swaddled to the max, squeezed against my chest, binky forced to stay in his mouth, lots of singing, bouncing, patting. He is difficult. So. So. Difficult.
The other night, I spent an hour getting him to sleep. I finally got him down in his bed calm and quiet and sound asleep. I went to my sewing machine and got halfway through my project (about 30 minutes after laying him down) and he woke up. I picked him up and was trying to calm him down, and I quietly said, "You are not the baby I was hoping for".
It makes me want to cry just looking at those words. I can't believe I even said that out loud.
Because it is not even remotely true.
Emery is absolutely the baby I hoped for and prayed for and desperately wanted. He is perfect and unique and he's mine. All mine. And I love him with a fierce and frustrated love. Sometimes I want to give up. I want to put him down and run away and hide in a hole and cry. I feel so helpless with him. I've taken all the advice and done all the things, but Emery is just gonna do what he do and I will love him until there's nothing left of me.
There's something about being a mom that makes you a little bit mad. In the mad-hatter kind of way. It's that crazy mad hatter love that makes me get up over and over again in the middle of the night to feed a kid that I know is going to claw crevices into my chest all night. It's the mad hatter love that makes me wake up everyday knowing that I'm not going to get a single thing done, that I'm going to be frustrated and lonely and desperate and angry.
Because I love that freaking kid. As angry and hostile as he is, I love him. I've sworn to myself (and to the entire internets, for that matter) that I will never expect my kids to be anything other than exactly who they are. Even when they're four months old.
So, my little chunky angry asian looking baby, I love you fiercely. You are absolutely not who I thought you would be, and I'm happy about that. You are your own little frustrated person and I can't imagine my life without your snarls. I hope that you always feel loved, always feel safe, and always feel like you belong right here with us.