I had spent day after day crying over my baby getting older and time going by so fast.

Trying to savor every moment.

Getting overwhelmed because I wasn’t enjoying every moment enough, or so I thought.

Getting upset because I wanted my baby to stay a baby.

Getting upset because I was so worried that I was not doing enough.

As the days went by, I was getting tired and tired.

Jesus, I’m still tired.

I felt like I was falling behind.

Dishes were neglected. The floor had not been swept in a week. My eyes have bags.

My hair is a mess. I feel fat. Ugly. I’m stressed.

And today I laid with my son all morning because I was just so exhausted. Then I did some dishes because there were no more clean forks. Then I swept the floor because I found a couple of ants (I sprayed the entire livingroom floor with ant repellant/killer, then wiped it up and figured I might as well sweep while I was at it). Then I mopped. Then I did a load of laundry and folded two neglected loads. Then I decided to make my first actual home cooked meal since bringing our son home. Not a microwaveable dinner. Not cucumbers and humus. Not crackers and cheese and ham.

Good ole spaghetti and meat balls.

I sat down with my son and I ate my food while we watched some tv.

And All of the sudden, I looked at him and he no longer seemed little and I realized I wasn’t sad about it. I was excited.

Every other day I had been so overwhelmed and stressed about every little thing. I felt like a failure. I felt like I wasn’t doing good enough. I felt like I wasn’t enough. I felt like if my son were to grow older he would grow to hate me.

But today, I did dishes, laundry, swept.

And i had dinner and I sat with my little man.

Things are going to be okay.