I’m writing this while feeding my new(ish) baby. He’s in the ergo baby, squirming while I stand in the kitchen, on top of a rug that I slid over so I could stand on it while I type. Because my feet always hurt. 

My feet hurt because either a) I’m 40 and 7 months, or b) I am still 15 lbs heavier than I was before becoming pregnant with my second baby or c) I’m still always carrying this baby, who people hand back to me because their arms don’t have the stamina or strength to continue holding him. 

I’m not just standing here, I’m swaying, I’m bouncing, to keep him asleep. 

And then he wakes up, and now he’s on the floor, next to my four year old daughter, who is holding up different toys, asking me if they are too small for him to hold. She finds this game funny, and doesn’t understand the risk of leaving choking hazards around for him to find. Have we fostered in her a sense of humor that is too dark? Possibly. 

So, I better stop writing before a this funny “Can you choke on this baby?” game ends in the worst way. 

But, this is the beginning. This is the beginning of my attempt to be honest.