Am I about to start mommyblogging?

No.

Hopefully not.

Although I totally get it. I mean, I had a baby. We now have a Ziggy*

my arms are so full
What is a Ziggy? This is a Ziggy. This was also the first moment when I realized my arms empty felt more foreign than my arms full of baby.

I’m a mommy now. I’m a mama. Mah-mah. Can you say mmAh-mmAh?  I stay home with my baby, and I’m only halfway through my maternity leave. I take notes on this baby like a scientist, a little anthropologist documenting every movement and behavior. I might have used the wrong -ologist there, but you know what I mean. I literally have lists where I just documented the daily schedule, and how it changed over the course of two weeks. I also had (have?) really bad PPD/OCD/anxiety on top of my already existent bipolar, which may have influenced how obsessive I’ve been in documenting this new person.

I love my baby, and I don’t want to share my baby with the internet** but I’m totally down to talk about mommy stuff. Like all the goddamn time. It’s terrible, really. It’s gotten to the point where we had guests, Ziggy’s godmother and her beau, and when I didn’t mention anything about boobs or milk for an hour that was a fucking record.

I really get mommy blogging. I didn’t, not until last night, when Ziggy fell asleep in the swing and I didn’t feel like going back to bed. So I looked over the notes I’ve written myself about cloth diapering and turned a chunk of them into a blog post. That was yesterday. There’s a part of this process that is so isolating that it’s hard not to feel lonely. They’re two different feelings, but they overlap a bit. The internet does a good job keeping the former from becoming the latter, but it’s not a perfect system.

I have a lot of thoughts about parenting and motherhood (two distinct, yet constantly overlapping roles) and I might start sharing them. I had a friend poke me about it over the weekend when she visited.

IMG_20151129_081122

*Not a real name, but a real nickname

**Texting photos to my family gave me panic attacks, and I burst into tears when I made the first Facebook baby album. Seriously, post partum crap is no joke.

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