“How far along are you?”
The woman in line next to me was asking, glancing from my heels to my laptop to the stomach rounding beneath my business casual.
“Eight months.” I smiled.
Another woman turned around. “Girl, you’re about to pop! Don’t you have that baby on this plane!” But the first woman looked more concerned than amused.
“You don’t look big enough to be eight months pregnant.”
I’ll be the first to admit I have a temper. As I shared on the podcast, I’m the kind of person who enjoys a good fight. While my penchant for conflict served me well in the career world, it’s not as appealing within the walls of my home.
I first recognized my anger in my late teens and early twenties. By then, old habits were dying hard. My temper flared easily, almost too quickly. Most concerning to me was how my angry nature would affect my future kids. I knew if I kept walking this tempestuous road, I would inevitably become the Yelling Mom.
I’m five months into this motherhood adventure and am finally in a place where I can see fruit from the seeds planted those first six weeks. Those who follow my story know that I didn’t have much time to prepare for Adeline’s arrival (we moved to a new state five days before she was born)! I was more concerned about my natural birth than anything else at the time, so I spent more time preparing for that than I did reading up on post-birth care. Oopsies!
They warned me before I got here.
“Babies ruin bodies.”
“Enjoy this now – you’ll never see it again after kids!”
“You’ll never be the same.”
I guess they were right. I am ruined. I don’t see it. I’m not the same.