Back in the days before I got pregnant, I had this mental image of how things were going to be once we had a baby.
Firstly, I was going to come out of the hospital looking like a frigging supermodel, or at the very least like my normal, pre-pregnancy self. (snort!) And secondly, I was going to have plenty of time and energy: clean house, gourmet meals, immaculately groomed mother and child, etc. (confession: this never happened even before I got pregnant so I realize it was ridiculously unlikely but whatever...a girl can dream.)
Since I don't have a lot of time and/or energy, the whole June Cleaver gig went by the wayside rather quickly. I don't have floors you can eat off of. You don't want to drop your toothbrush in my toilet, shrug your shoulders and brush your teeth anyway and you most certainly aren't going to be blown away by my culinary prowess. I'm happy when I manage a lasagna because my little angel is high maintenance. As for the supermodel/pre-pregnancy fallacy...don't even get me started. Topic for another post. One that I'll write after saving up calories for weeks so I can drown my sorrows in a drink or two as I mourn my increased size.
So no, we don't all sit around the dinner table like the Cleaver family chatting about our day while baby Brynn gurgles and burbles charmingly. Evenings are chaotic affairs at best until Brynn goes to bed around 8 and I count myself lucky if I don't end up eating my chicken skewered on my fork like a bloody corn dog while cleaning the house or feeding Her Babiness. Yumm! Meat on a stick.
Stop laughing. I've actually eaten supper like that. I'm livin' the dream, baby, I'm livin' the dream. Who's, I don't know, but it is bound to be somebody's...