Pretty much every.single.person told me when I was preg that once the baby arrived, I wouldn’t give two shits about my other babies.

My fur babies.

At first I loudly objected to this. Then I heard it so many times, along with all the other advice people you have never had a single conversation with before suddenly want to tell you what you’re already doing wrong or what you need to do in order to be “right”, I stopped responding.

I mastered a very important life lesson: shut your mouth, smile, nod your head and say, that is so helpful, thank you.

Even when it’s not helpful and you’re not thankful. Not one teeny tiny bit.

That’s the best to be able to do.

Alright. I will admit. Those first couple months with Jack, I was so damn out of my mind from sleep deprivation and burning {mastitis} boobs that I barely paid any attention to the cats, or Murph.

They were three more living things that needed something from me, which was three too many, so they were The BF’s responsibility.

Once I physically felt better, I began to acknowledge them more. I was able to give more attention. It’s still not the same as it was pre-FOH. The hours of lounging together and falling asleep with both of them stretched across me are long gone.

But we have our moments, and they have each other.

They are my daily representations of love and light and peace. Complete peace. Just looking at them makes me more calm.

Now that’s power.