|baby #4, his first day home|
I have birthed four beautiful, healthy babies. I have rested four minutes-old infants against my chest, marveled at their minute fingers wrapped around mine, kissed their tiny fuzzy heads. I am so thankful for my tiny newborns, and the chance to mother each of them.
But I don't love babies.
I mean, I love my children deeply, but I don't love the baby days. I look at the Anne Geddes style newborn portraits that are popular right now, and I think, how long did it take that mom to soothe her newborn to sleep before very tenderly placing him in a little gauze nest, and how many shots did the photographer snap before the baby screamed again? Because those peaceful, adorably decorated newborns? Only exist in frames.
Real babies are hard.