Postpartum

As I sit on my couch, juggling a laptop on my legs, Criminal Minds on for background noise, a newborn snoring in an awkward position on my chest, and a overfilled bladder, I can’t help but think to myself, “I don’t know if I can do this!” 

My hair isn’t brushed, and hasn’t been washed in a few days, mostly because once I step in the tub, and wash the necessary smelly bits and pieces, I’m either too damn tired to wash my hair, or the baby starts screaming bloody murder, and I need to jump out to deal with a starving baby vulture. The tiny human knows mommy will come to the rescue, when daddy starts to panic because he can’t figure out what’s wrong, and small baby cries have turned into blood curdling screams, a red face, and breath holding.

Making bottles has turned into an agitating process, not so much during the day, but most definitely throughout the night. No one tells you how much more difficult it is when your child goes from being content with two ounces, to now demanding three at every feeding. One would think an extra ounce wouldn’t be challenging, but when formula only has directions for even ounces, and some genius in the powdered formula lab assumed babies like to count by two’s, mixing bottles like a chemist at 3 am is exhausting, and just takes away from that precious sleep I strive for.

There’s something about the way my body looks now that repulses me. I had stretch marks prior to pregnancy, so it’s not that at all, I couldn’t care less about the battle scars of life….BUT….the flubber around my abdomen, extra jiggle on hips/legs, and the way everything just hangs down like a depressed inner tube being sent to the recycle factory, has my self-esteem waining slightly. It also doesn’t help that my scalp is flaky from the hormonal oil slick that has made its home on my head, and my face is so dry that it looks like the texture of a cats tongue.

I hate everything about the way my brain is making me feel. The crying for no reason, that lasted a week, and I was glad to see it go, but to be honest, I would rather cry than feel the way I do now! It’s so weird staring into the eyes of your perfect little miracle girl, thinking how happy you are that she is here, and at the very same time feeling so depressed. It takes everything I have to get out of bed, and mostly because I can’t crawl under the covers, die to the world, and be a good mother at the same time.

I’m healing from a second degree tear, wearing depends, taking Colace like candy, constantly leaking from the baby feeders, feeding a newborn every two-two and a half hours, cooking, cleaning, taking care of poopy blow-outs, filling syringes with baby Simethicone…and in between…trying to grab something remotely edible, before the hunger gremlins strike the baby like she hasn’t eaten in years…MEANWHILE…the hubs complains he’s been “extra tired today, and needs more sleep.” It takes all I have not to grab a weapon, (not for murder, just for a sincere beating about the head and shoulders), when I hear him complaining about things I consider minute. He is very helpful, and I know it’s just my current mood that makes me want to slap him with a board, but it doesn’t help when I am exhausted from the day, and still have to manage to repeat the entire process throughout the night, without a complaint, yet he is, “exhausted!?!?!”

The dog next door is barking again. The landlords won’t do shit about the fact that it never shuts the fuck up, but they have no idea that I am dealing with extreme anxiety, and I am two seconds from throwing a rock through the neighbors window, and strangling the fuck out of that damn dog, with my bare hands!

I feel so alone.

I feel trapped in my home.

I feel stressed, and overwhelmed, but perfectly capable of handling things at the same time.

I feel like I am letting my daughter down by just going through this daily routine, without a smile on my face 90% of the time.

I feel guilty because I get annoyed and agitated with the 4 am, 45 minute gassy scream-fest, that seems to be in our nightly schedule lately. I feel guilty when my baby wants to sleep in my arms, and I just want to put her down in the crib so I can lay my head down on the pillow by myself. I feel guilty because I say things to my husband like, “I will be glad when the newborn stage is over.” I feel guilty because I waited so long to be a mom, and now I feel like a failure who can’t even get a grip on my emotions. I feel guilty because I should feel overjoyed, but feel so dragged down.

Right now, what gets me through the day is a little angel I call Averie. I also realize that, just like my tattoo says, “every storm has its end,” and I’m hoping the turmoil I feel now is temporary.

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