I’m coming to you in between feedings, after fingerfulls of lanolin on cracked bleeding nipples, after double mastitis that hit so hard and fast that I literally thought I might die, after a shower so quick you’d hardly call it a shower, after another inhaled meal before the crying begins again, after nights of broken sleep where I have begged the baby for just 10 more minutes of shut eye, after neverending loads of diaper laundry and ointment and explosive baby poop and changing one outfit only to have the fresh clothing immediately soiled, AFTER MAKING AN OFFER ON A HOUSE AT 8 DAYS POSTPARTUM, after surviving an entire week with my mother-in-law, after 30 pounds lost, a belly still soft like bread dough, a face pale and ashen and looking strange without a speck of makeup, a constant backache and my pelvis still popping around and maxi pads and disolving stitches and a ponytail 24/7 and a head full of numbers and schedules and chores and “must-do’s” and necessities and wants and Christmas coming too soon and scribbled down messages on the backs of my hands and the management of six separate individuals. I am spent and overwhelmed and yet I can hardly find the time to complain because I am too busy falling in love.