I think life beginning to return to normal is facilitated mostly by time moving forward. The breastfeeding woes have been worked out, Eleanor has realized it is acceptable to nap in one location other than my arms during a small part of most days, and Abigail has decided it won't kill her to reintegrate grilled cheese and oatmeal into her diet. Somedays I even think I might be able to see how I could do this whole "raise a family" thing long-term.
I think I thought that if I did everything the right way, life would be easy. If I gave birth the right way, if I fed my baby the way women are supposed to feed their babies, if we came back from the hospital to a stable home (read: not moving cross-country twice in one year), newborn world would be easy. And while it definitely has been easier, I would not describe it as easy. It took me a little bit of time to realize that fact. And even though the bastard that is PPD is lurking in the shadows, when I collapse into bed at 9:30pm for a 3-hour stretch of sleep, I have nothing to say to God but "Thank you."
How can such a challenging, sacrificial life fill my heart so full?
The one mommy-free place she'll sleep with any kind of regularity:
My mind is bursting with post ideas: my experience of typically developing newborn vs a special needs newborn, how anyone can survive with Eleanor's sleep habits, baby gear I find indispensable, how Matt and I reworked our five-year plan to maybe, just maybe include building our dream house once Matt gets a permanent position somewhere.
But alas, two little blessings are begging for my attention. One of them has the arm of a Yankee pitcher and the other the lungs of Andrea Bocelli.