Motherhood // Naptime, because I’m real.

I wish I could say that my child always sleeps quietly in her crib by herself, but she doesn’t. She sleeps where ever I can get her to fall asleep. My bed. Her floor. My arms. She doesn’t always sleep in fresh pajamas. She often sleeps in whatever she was wearing minus her pants. Sometimes it’s in a onesie covered in drool and wearing only one sock because I’m real. She doesn’t always sleep quaintly with a sweet stuffed animal tucked under her arm. She often sleeps with a burp cloth clenched tightly in her fist and her face riddled with scratches from her curious little hands. Her slumbers are usually with a binky hanging halfway out her mouth. She doesn’t always fall asleep to bubbling brooks or whale noises, she is usually lulled to sleep for morning nap by CNN. I wish I could say that I always rock my baby to sleep, skin-to-skin in her beautiful rocking chair, I can but I don’t. I usually bounce her to sleep on a $30 yoga ball wearing burp cloths because I would love just an hour where I don’t wear spit up or drool as an accessory. I do this because I’m real. And because of that I will continue to proudly sing Fleetwood Mac songs to her instead of lullabies, let her sleep on her play mat with a beach towel as a blanket, and have my heart swell when she awakes with the sweetest smile on her face. I do this because I’m real.

S H A R E - I T|T W E E T - I T|P I N - I T

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