I've been someone's mama for three months now. Birdie is asleep next to me as I write this and there are little traces of her all around the room. To be honest there's little traces everywhere. There's a tiny blue shark in an empty bathtub, there is a pair of wee little red tights on the floor next to it, an opened package of diapers sits on the dresser next to a bag of little girls clothes waiting to be unpacked from the weekend, a towel drying on the tub, a baby bottle hidden here and there a package of wipes, a binky, a blanket...
The old me would have a heart attack simply reading over a list like this. The old me thrived on being organized, clean and... well perfect. I loved the way our house felt when it was all scrubbed down, everything put away and not a speck of dust to be seen. I loved bins and boxes and labels and tiny little containers for everything. I liked for things to be lined up, folded away and symmetrical. And then I had a baby. And oh my gosh, those words most definitely do not describe our house anymore. And you know what?! I don't mind one bit.
Because I'd rather spend that extra moment splashing in the tub with my baby instead of washing it. I'd rather spend too much time giving someone raspberries during a diaper change than put away diapers and wipes. I'd rather have an extra minute of tummy time, some more giggles in the Bumbo seat and pepper that sweet face with kisses that dust, wash or vacuum. Because one day she won't want batheez with mama, she won't think I'm that funny and she'll be too big to fall asleep in my arms. Sometimes I feel it so strongly, the sense that this is all so fleeting and it almost breaks my heart. After all I already don't have a newborn anymore...