There comes a day in every new job when you let out a quiet sigh of relief because you finally feel at least a little bit competent. You figured out the spread sheet; you remembered the UPS guy’s name; you made a good decision on your own; you sounded smart in a staff meeting. I’m gonna go ahead and say that being a mom is the hardest new job I’ve ever started, and those moments of competence are few and far between. But here’s a recent one that felt pretty good.

Yep. I’m wearing jeans.

I got a lot of compliments when I resurfaced into the public eye after giving birth. My stomach went back to normal relatively quickly, and people were kind to point out that they thought I looked good. It was nice. People are nice. But I could see the whole picture. The just out of the shower picture. The still wearing 2 sizes bigger than usual underwear picture.
See, here’s the thing: My baby never got very big, and neither did my stomach. I didn’t ‘show’ until I was around 24 weeks, and no one EVER believed me about my due date. Clara’s size and birth story are a whole other topic for a whole other blog post, but I definitely stayed relatively (and sort of accidentally) small. So after I had her, it wasn’t difficult for my stomach to go back down.
As for the rest of me?
Well.
Let’s just say I had to wash my black leggings every other day…because I was wearing them every single day. None of my pants fit. Not one pair. And I knew I was supposed to give it time, and that my body had just done something absolutely miraculous, but I was still sort of confused about my new shape.
Wait, was confused? No, pardon my verb tense: am confused.

There are a lot of things about my life that changed dramatically with parenthood, not just my underwear size. My always clean house is now always messy. I have to plan days ahead of time instead moment to moment (perhaps something easy for the rest of you responsible adults, but I only started wearing a watch like 2 years ago, so…). I live in a time warp of 2 hour increments, from feeding to feeding and nap to nap, and there are some days when I just can’t do one damn thing right.

So when I finally got up the courage to shimmy my way into the soft denim and hard rivets of those unforgiving pants, I took a second to breathe that elusive sigh of competent relief. It’s one small victory at a new, terrifying and breathtaking and lovely job. They don’t look like they used to, and there’s only one pair that fits so far, but hey-

I’m a mama. Wearing jeans.  So cheers to that.

Top image found here: http://cache.thisorth.at/00000/00011/179.460×325.png

 I somehow doubt that my parents woke up every morning of our childhood and thought to themselves, “Boy, it sure is easy raising seven kids. No problems at all!” I also doubt that Sam’s parents have spent every one of the last 35 years (sorry Tarah) in absolute bliss as they raised their five children.

But the gift they have given us as adults is valuable beyond measure. Because now? Now we have the best kinds of friends we could ask for. Siblings we love. Siblings with spouses and kids we love. Siblings who make our lives rich and beautiful.

They make you laugh.

They let you live with them when your life is a mess.

They teach your kids how to make applesauce.

They share life with you.

They make good kids and love on yours.

They skype kiss your infant.

They take care of you.

They give you advice.

They write books for your baby and cry when they have to say goodbye.

They help you birth your daughter and cry when she is born.

They marry good people.

They become your best friends.

We have one little baby. And she’s the best. And it’s hard. Adding more kids?
That’ll just make it harder.

But what a gift to give, ya know? What a gift to give.