There's the poster image of motherhood. We all know it, seen them on tv rubbing vapour rub on their child's chest with perfect hair and makeup at 3 am with their comforting faces unwavering.
There's the warm sunny feelings the nappy and baby toy ads talk about. The militant pride that women's leagues and associations furl their flags to.
I do feel amazing things as a mother. Like the swelling of pride when I noticed all the new amazing things Buddyboo can do this week. The wonderment in every new experience and sensation. I can't describe how hilarious it was watching Buddyboo marvel at his own reflection in the mirror for the first time.
The amazing side of motherhood that everyone trumpets is real. It is warm. It is lovely.
But I've found motherhood is also extremely lonely.
I hear how boring I am at adult conversations now. How I have nothing to say even to my own husband that is not an anecdote of the minutiae of a 9 week old's day. And it is common knowledge that 9 week olds don't do much beyond eat, excrete and sleep. I practically have to roll my own eyes when I hear myself describing the change in the consistency of his poop or the slight variances in his sleep cycles.
Motherhood is oft celebrated and acknowledged as one of the toughest things in the world and how mothers are so tough and resilient.
But what if I don't feel strong? What if despite the warm and fuzzy moments I also feel things that aren't celebrated? Things that invoke worry, advice and unwanted misdirected encouragement. Feelings like worthlessness. Lost. Lacklustre. Like I'm just a vessel. A thing. No spark. No life. No one.
It's part and parcel and that's the beautiful tragic dichotomy of my motherhood experience thus far. And I'll take it everytime.