Equal time

Today W is nine months old. He's now been living in the outside world as long as he lived inside of me.* The changes have been remarkable.

He's gone from this...

...to this.

He's crawling, babbling, saying "mama" (and meaning it), cruising, standing on his own for a few seconds at a time, socializing with other babies, terrorizing loving small animals, gaining weight at an alarming-to-mommy rate, rapidly outgrowing all of the new clothes I just bought him, starting to figure out sippy cups and straws, and eating every bit of finger food (and cat food) he can get his chubby little hands on.

He's cute and sweet and the biggest challenge I've ever faced.

He's destroyed my body (see, e.g., my droopy boobs, flabby belly pooch, widened hips, and stretch-marked thighs) and my sleep schedule. Killed my freedom and my desire to ever have another child EVER. He's made me crazy, literally and figuratively. He's made me question our decision to bring a child into the world and my ability to handle being a mother.

But he's fun. And he's cute. And the love I feel for him when I watch him sleep is one of the most overwhelming feelings in the world. I don't yet find him or my role as mother fulfilling, but I hope maybe some day I will. I'm still holding on to that hope, even nine months later.

W has made me grow in ways I never anticipated, and brought me more challenges that I ever could have imagined.

This chubby little bundle of paradoxes has become the center of my universe, for better or worse. He's pushed B and I to the brink, and brought us closer than we've ever been (just like we thought, having a baby totally fixed every single problem with our marriage!)

Although there are hours and days when I wish I could go back and change the course of my childbearing life, most of the time I'm so happy and grateful to have the wonderful little boy I've been given. I'm looking forward to seeing how he continues to grown and change.

And I'm terrified of his toddler years. He is 110% pure boy, and he's going to be the death of me.

*Technically, if we're going to get nitpicky (and I'm nothing if not nitpicky), I should have written this post six days ago, as W gestated for 268 days, and today is his 274th day of life. Ugh, I'm a nerd.