Serious: 1 Year Out

This time last year I was in a hospital room, in labor, high out of my goddamn mind on Stadol. (I later learned that the wonderful sense of euphoria and floating feeling only happen to 1-10% of people (LUCKY ME!)).

Ellen turns one tomorrow morning at 4:44 am.

​I'm not in disbelief about it at all like a lot of moms said I might be. This year was the longest and shortest. It's a year I'll look back on and feel like I remember every single day of it.

Every nervous day. 
The day I had her and I didn't know how to feed her or swaddle her.
The day we gave her her first bath.
The day she cried violently for an hour and a half at bedtime before I figured out she had gas, burped, and immediately fell asleep.
The day she tried solid food for the first time.
The days she had the flu.
The days she wouldn't eat from a bottle. 
The day I went to get induced.
The day I realized I had postpartum depression.
The day I told my doctor about it.
The day I went to my first therapy appointment.
The day I pumped for the first time.
The days and days of unnecessary research for every little thing because I couldn't possibly know what I was doing on my own.
The day I left her to go back to work.
The days in the hospital and hospice with my mother in law and my family.
The day I found out my dad relapsed. 

Every proud day. 
The day she learned to stick her tongue out to the side.
The day she got her first tooth.
The day she learned to clap.
The day she went under water for the first time at swim class.
The day my Aunt Dinah got her to take a bottle for the first time.
The day she crawled.
The day she walked.
The day she started doing the sign for 'milk' when she was hungry.
The day she slept through the night for the first time.
The day she said her first word.
The day we dropped her morning feeding and she was a total boss about it.
The day I went to my first therapy appointment.
The days I was alone with Ellen while Travis went to Florida.
Today.
Every day.

I've never been one to boast and I've never been fond of those that do, but there's a severe difference between bragging and recognizing when you've done a really good job with something. 

GUYS. I'm giving myself recognition. (No, really, this is huge).

I'm so fucking proud of my daughter and I'm so fucking proud of myself.

Yes, I tore into myself, deeper than I ever have before, and I lost myself for awhile. I crawled through most of the year and walked through the rest. Slowing down to take care of myself has given me resilience and strength beyond anything I've ever known in myself.

I get to rebuild myself on this new foundation and I'm not worried about the nervous days so much anymore. 

This foundation is strong enough for me.
​And strong enough for Ellen.

​
Fuck you Norma. I got this.