My little man turned seven months old yesterday. That's two-hundred and twelve days. Two-hundred and twelve days of happiness and purpose and joy that I didn't even know could exist. Two-hundred and twelve days that were filled with more love and light and- okay, I'll just say it-sleepless nights, because of him.
Month six was really hard. There was teething, less sleeping, and my husband working some insane hours. It was a month that made me feel less like a Pinterest-perfect, has it all together and savors every single moment kind of mom and more of a slightly crazed, sort of holding it together, really needs to was her hair kind of mom.
But the beautiful thing is this: My son doesn't care. He doesn't care that I haven't managed to do a monthly photo shoot with adorable little props to document his growth. He doesn't care that his nursery doesn't look like something straight off of Pinterest. He doesn't care that I consider a Target run a fun outing for the two of us, or that-gasp- I don't make my own baby food.
I'm not a perfect mom, but his face still lights up when he sees me. I'm still the one he wants to snuggle up to when he's sleepy. Because all he knows is that I'm his mom.
And no matter how hard life seems or how messy my house gets or how sleepy I am, he loves me just the same.
Sure, I stress over how my recent lack of makeup makes for less Instagram-worthy pictures with him. I worry about how I still haven't hung up all the nursery decorations. I feel uneasy when I start to think about all the things I should probably be doing for him.
But then he smiles his gummy little smile and flashes his two new teeth at me. And nothing, absolutely nothing else matters.
I'm not a perfect mom, but my baby doesn't care. Because I'm his mom. And that's really all that matters.
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