You have to feed your baby organic homemade food, breastfeed from day one until at least a year, dress them fashionably but not ‘too adult’, buy them the most eco-friendly/developmentally stimulating toys, decorate their nursery with $100+ wallpaper and chic Etsy plushies, and care for them gingerly while still making time to stay fit, cook balanced meals, and be romantic with your husband, not to mention side obligations like work, school, holidays, family, etc.
Anything less is failure.
The inadequacy used to be okay. My weight always sort of bothered me, but I always thought there would be time to fix it later. I could live with imperfection because it was all temporary. The key to staving off depression was time.
Now that I have a daughter, the clock is ticking. She will never be eight months old again, and seven, six, five, four, three, two, one have already come and gone. I can’t photoshop her baby pictures to omit the mess in the corner or the bare drywall.
What I have to do is realize she doesn’t care what brand her britches are, or whether her toys are used, or whether her ‘nursery’ is actually just a crib tucked between the TV and my dresser.
But the clock is ticking. So I have to forget all of the ‘shoulds’ and ‘shouldn’ts’ and try my damnedest to remember to tell her good morning even when I’m not feeling it, to climb in the bath with her, to rock her a little longer just for the feel of it even if it’s two a.m. Because her feet are already poking out past my arms—she is overflowing in my embrace.
The clock won’t reset when I get my life together, she will never again be the little person she is now.