They never tell you how hard it is.
Well, OK, they do. It's just that you, hugely pregnant and well-slept and freshly showered, throwing back fried mac and cheese balls like it's your job, don't hear them. Because you have big plans to spend your first few postpartum weeks gazing beatifically down at your clean, glorious newborn as neighbors drop by with myrrh and frankincense and maybe a nice bottle of Sancerre.
And then. Oh, and then.
Then you suddenly wake up on the living room floor at 4 am, wearing mismatched socks, one boob hanging out, manually rocking a bouncy seat as you listen to something called "Ocean Waves," but which you suspect is actually just someone's shitty iPhone recording of an industrial dryer. Your week-old infant is wailing, and you must choose whether to let him cry while you pee or take him with you. A moment later, squatting over the toilet while trying to keep his blankie out of the stream, you begin to seriously question your decision-making skills.
Your new go-to conversation-starter is a state of the union on your nipples. You tell visitors that they look like they got into a bar fight. And you should see the other guy. He had... really hard gums. Ba dum bum. I'll be here all week. No, seriously, all week. On this couch, mouth breathing and having fever dreams about actually falling asleep. No one laughs, and worse, no one offers you wine.
But it's getting easier. I turned on my computer. I typed this blog, albeit one-handed. It's getting easier every day. And this little face makes it totally worth it: