The following entry was written by Bethany Hiitola of Mommy Writer

When I started my motherhood career, I naively thought it would be a lot of snuggling, cooing, kissing, and well moments of perfect bliss. Post-birth euphoria wasn't even phased an inch after the first night of gas-induced crying, tar-filled diapers, and even a bit chaffing nipples—at least until week one closed.

Then reality started to set in: power poops, constant feedings, endless laundry, and breasts that were more a war zone than something that entertained my husband on kinky evenings alone (what once was alone time). Suddenly motherhood became the dead zone—something between pure exhaustion and being near death—with proper etiquette. Somehow, I was supposed to spur engaging conversation with neighbors, friends, and family praising the new spawn and be happy about it all, no matter how little sleep I'd enjoyed and how much spit up I'd hidden beneath the sweatshirt draped on my shoulders.

After the notorious six-week check-up it only got more complicated. Of course playgroup mothers and family members lost any memory of the infant development timeline and assumed the infant was sleeping the night and self-sufficient enough to not want a boob every hour. And the whole assumption that I'd returned to my old sarcastic-fun self—whatever the hell that means. Who feels normal after pushing an eight and a half pound human out of their crotch and then realizes they are responsible for that little squirming thing?

And then there was sex—or more appropriately, lack of it. I was nothing near glamorous pre-child. Post-birth was nothing short of torture for him. My self-deprecation was at its highest if a Hallmark movie didn't have me cradling my child in sobs. I'd forced my somewhat fashionable wardrobe aside for sweat pants, stained nursing bras, and Old Navy t-shirts of every color and pattern. Other than bearing his child—I was a mess. I tend to think the fact that the offspring graced his father with a smile long before he managed to flash one my way had a lot to do with my husband's willingness to not send me packing.

Once I got used to the idea of being responsible for an impressionable child—things (sex and motherhood) got a bit more manageable. Little to no time for myself turned into fifteen minutes of free time. My once required afternoon naptime evolved into catch-up sex (if the child was indeed napping and the husband was around), and breastfeeding remained what it was, instant milk bar.

Ultimately, motherhood changed me. The little baby who turned my life upside down—over time showed me a pure, uninhibited, gigantum type of love. And that type of love is unsurpassed by anything else I have encountered. Imagine what another baby could do.