It’s 5 a.m., and I’m fumbling in the kitchen to find clean pumping accessories before getting ready for the day. The kitchen’s a mess. My pre-pregnancy self would be screaming on the insides to clean it as soon as possible, but today, I shrug it off.
I used to take pride in having a clean and tidy home. It was the one thing that I could show for. When my husband and I struggled with infertility, at least I could say that my yard was immaculate. When I sobbed after every negative pregnancy test, at least the laundry was all clean and impeccably folded. When I mourned after a child I never got to meet, at least I had a homemade meal in the oven.
DIY, for me, was a crutch. It’s still my favorite hobby, and one that I will never give up. But, it was my coping mechanism. I’d bury myself every weekend into an enormous project to fill my time and the void with something, anything to be proud of. It worked; it got me through my darkest days and memories, and I will always be grateful to it because of that.
Today, these DIY projects are few and far between. My kitchen is rarely clean, my laundry remains tossed in the hamper, our yard is full of weeds. I may not ever share as many projects and write as many blog posts as I did before, and that’s OK. All that matters is my daughter is asleep in her nursery — a nursery that I made when I was elated to have a heathy pregnancy. A nursery that I designed with every ounce of love and passion — for dinosaurs, of all things — that I wanted to instill into our child.
I am eternally grateful for every day that we share with her. I never thought that she would be here, but she is. I never fully believed in the idea of love at first sight, but I do now; I fell in love the moment I saw her. So, my weekends may not always be filled with trips to Lowe’s and Home Depot anymore, but it is filled with love and a daughter to always, now and forever, be proud of.