I started writing this blog post at 2:30 am. I'd just pumped a cow-riffic few ounces of milk for my baby girl.
I was exhausted...but the words dancing in my head wouldn't be quiet. They demanded to be heard, getting louder and louder, forcing me to listen. It's exactly how my adventure with this blog started years ago: that inner voice just wouldn't shut up ;)
Expressing myself is who I am. The only thing that's more "me" is loving fashion. That's why this blog was so transformative for me for so long. It combined two fundamental parts of who I am.
But today, ten weeks into my daughter's life, who I am feels like a nebulous thing. I no longer feel like this multifaceted person: daughter, friend, partner, professional, pig, clown, fashionista, writer. For the last two months, I've been pretty singularly defined as Mini Diabolina's mother.
She is gorgeous baby - strong, funny, sweet, a great sleeper and an even better eater. In quiet moments when it's just the two of us, I am overwhelmed by my love for her. I cry and cry and cry because she is mine and I am hers and the love we share is like nothing I could have imagined.
I adore my child but motherhood is grueling. It's challenging down to your core. It's also fundamentally disorienting, at 37 years old, to feel like your very sense of self, your identity, who you are is in complete flux. In some ways, I feel like a child myself: unsure, tentative, experimenting.
After all, I had finally just gotten to know and love me in my 30s. And now that person is changing deep down in parts of my being I'd never truly mined before. All while my postpartum hormones rage. It's supes fun, let me tell you...
So I'm going to try to come back to writing, to a part of me I know and don't want to lose. I'm also coming back to the blog because I need to get my fashion mojo back. I am in danger of becoming a normcore, leggings and top wearing, basic bitch, the horror! My daughter deserves better.
Also I need to play into my vanity and lose my baby tummy. Although I may be back to my pre-preggo weight (thanks, breastfeeding and good genes!) my stomach looks like a butt. Not a nice J Lo/Kardashian boo-tay. More like a flabby, saggy tush that would be on the cover of the National Inquirer issue of "worst beach bodies" with a black bar over the star's face. Sad but true.
I'm going to keep the posts short. I always say that and have such a hard time doing it but now I have a baby to keep me honest.
I'll blog about mommy and baby fashion, deep motherhood thoughts and my adventures with my little girl, my mother aka grandma extraordinare and Mr. Diabolina. All while keeping it real how I've always done.
Here's to a new beginning.