I want to write, I want to keep the words moving, keep them on the outside. I don’t want these words inside to back up.
I don’t want to choke on them.
When The Poo was born it felt like a slow death by drowning. Drowning in sorrow, in fear, in exhaustion … my memories of her early days are so hazy. I have to look at photographs to remember what she was like then. I am rarely in the pictures, and when I am I look pinched and angry.
I was so sad when I carried her inside me. I looked to her birth to rescue me from my grief. That is a heavy load for a small person to carry.
I was angry. I felt unprepared for the boot camp that is infanthood. Nothing, no amount of advice or warning from those who’ve been there, done that can prepare you for being a mother.
Note that I say “mother” – my word choice is always deliberate.
My husband tried, but he couldn’t know what it was like to house this human inside his body and then spend 23 of 24 hours staring at her face, trying to get her to sleep, to eat, to be quiet for just five goddamn minutes.
The guilt, oh! The guilt that comes with wanting five minutes to shower. The interior monologues that begin and end with self-flagellation.
I wanted this! I wanted this! And now I have it! And oh, my God! What have we done!
It is less so with Shaggy.
I know it passes. I know that one day, probably soon, he will smile and coo and sit up by himself. He won’t need me the same way he does now.
Saturday night – and morning, for that matter – was a nightmare. The baby slept for 45 minutes in 24 hours. I do not exaggerate. He is going through something, some change, and it is messing with his head.
And mine.
I feel words at the top of my throat. I feel them wanting to come out. Words like “sad” and “depressing” and “homesick.” Words that deny the true joy I feel when I look at my son’s face. Words that, were I to open my mouth and let them out, would negate the happiness of his birth.
I just don’t want to lose myself again.
Shaggy will likely be my last baby. My body isn’t up to the task of another, and it would have to be soon if we had a third. I am rounding 40, and, frankly, I am just too fucking tired.
I watch his little mouth and eyes when he sees me – I know I am his entire world. I feel my heart opening again, painfully, hopefully, an undeserving recipient of this new love.
So I swallow hard and eat them up again, these sharp words.
{ 23 comments… read them below or add one }
Only been there once, but you’ve described it perfectly. I’m so sorry it’s sucking right now. Know there are people out there rooting for you. And it’s OK to get pissed off once in a while–you’re human. It’s not all of who you are, just a little tiny bit, and you shouldn’t feel guilty for it. It’s real.
You are a good mother, and a good writer. I’ll pray for a few hours of sleep.
BTW, my daughter did the same thing and didn’t sleep through the night until she was 7 months old–so no bragging when he follows his sister’s lead!
The first year is always the hardest. I’d have to say that I pretty much didn’t even like my son until he was about 4 months old. I mean, I loved him, but he wasn’t on my top ten there for a bit. The crying and not sleeping, the worrying and the attention he needed. But it got easier.
We also stopped at 2. We didn’t want the number of kids to outweigh the number of adults. At least then we might have a fighting chance.
Take care and good luck.
So difficult motherhood is, isn’t it? I have a big knot in my chest after reading your post. I feel your emotion. I’m sending hugs.
Infanthood is a bitch, isn’t it? I was so happy when my kids grew out if it. Don’t get me wrong, I loved them as babies just not all the craziness that surrounds a newborn, you know? Bleah.
BTW, I’d be more than happy to come over and mind the boy-o while the Poo’s at school so you can get some rest or do whatever, if you think he’d mind being held by somebody other than his mama. Just let me know. It’s not an imposition; I’m offering. And I’ll bring cookies.
It’s hard, hard, hard, no way around it. You’ve hit the range of emotions on the head, and–thank goodness–you are not alone, even when it feels that way. So many of us have walked this path; take heart: this phase, too–like all of them–shall pass. Hang in there!
these are the days i’m warily anticipating, just hoping that it will – as you say – be a little less overwhelming this time around, knowing that it ends, knowing that there is the love and the heart opening that is part and parcel.
abiding with you, in spirit…and likely soon enough in practice.
Isn’t it funny with the second? It’s hard, but you have maybe just a wee more perspective. That doesn’t mean you don’t have moments, but there seem to be a lot less of them.
Sit tight and try to enjoy. I’m devastated that my baby just graduated to toddler. I would (almost) give anything to be in your shoes!
My first was like Shaggy. He would doze off for ten minutes, then wake with a start and scream for hours. Repeat. Then, my second was born. OH, THE DREAM BABY! Sleep, nurse, gurgle, look at pretty curtains, sleep. And I thought “oh, I am a better mommy now, more relaxed, more organized!” Because with my first, I got all this advice that said “It’s because you pick him up too much. Your milk isn’t enough. You are nervous, and he can tell. You just aren’t good enough.” Huh. So when I got pregnant with number three, I thought he, too, would be a dream baby because I was such an expert by then.
Baby number three was a tyrant. Not so much screaming, because I carried him around all day. And he slept in our bed, which made it easier to nurse ALL NIGHT LONG. I told him “Fine. You suck, I will sleep”. I became the expert Nursing-Sleeping-Lying-Downer. I was actually relieved to discover that Baby number one’s tyranny? Was not my fault! I wasn’t a bad mother to him! he was just a stinker! And sometimes they are born like that! Why? Was it something I ate?
Has someone suggested that maybe he is going through a growth spurt? I know those were the worst days for me. If baby is not sleeping, then in a few days to a week he will sleep and eat more.
I stopped at one and now that I am a grandmother and understand that infants and children are not all the same, I do have some misgivings (but not many). My daughter never slept through the night until she was 10 months old, and then only for a night here and there. I was a single mom and worked about 50-60 hours a week back then. By her first birthday, I was a total guilt zombie. She is an adult now and still wakes and bumbles around the house at night…fortunately it is at her house and not mine.
oh seriously friend those interior monologues are crazy aren’t they??
we are our own worst enemy! and truly it’s never actually as bad as we make it in our head is it?
thinking of you and sending long distance hugs – lots of em!
I lost myself twice. After each kid. Only to find myself more deeply than before. I never quite let myself fall into the fear though. I know I should trust I’ll be OK but I never do until I’m actually OK. I wish I would have just let myself lean into it a little more but I was so tired. So overwhelmed and so in love all at the same time.
You write so well what I have felt.
oh honey. i can’t imagine two. i know how hard i found just one. i am thinking of you always.
Babe, your love is boundless. But damn, it doesn’t mean you don’t need sleep! Don’t beat yourself up, beautiful girl.
Having a newborn in the house sucks! Have I mentioned that? It sucks! Nothing is good without sleep. Actually, even with sleep, the guessing game of raising a new little person is exhausting and leaves you feeling powerless and alone. Candace says it well – that even as you lose yourself now, you will come out of it having found a self that is deeper and richer than before.
But meanwhile, give yourself a break.
“I wanted this! I wanted this! And now I have it! And oh, my God! What have we done!”
Never has the surprise of new motherhood been expressed so perfectly.
Great post. I can identify with the part of you that wants five minutes to yourself. I regularly walk in to a first line barbed comment from my other half.
Half an hour later she always comes and apologises (I am usually armpit deep in washing up by then).
Exhaustion. It can make you sad…even when you have every reason to be happy. Get some rest. Take care of yourself.
Amazing post. I only have one right now, and I still remember the exhaustion in the beginning. You’re right, things will get better, they’ll get easier. I hope that you get through this soon, and get lots of hugs in the meantime!
I think the first 3 months are incredibly hard. And the next 3? Still pretty hard. Sleep deprivation is the worst – it really screws with your head and well being.
As you’ve said yourself, it does get better, but that’s cold comfort in the moment. Hang in there!
They were the hardest three periods of my life, those newborn days. You’re doing great, you are. We are our own worst critics, particularly when sleep deprived. I hope you get some decent rest soon.
Here is a poem that just might help a little.
Loving Two
I walk along holding your 3-year-old hand,
basking in the glow of our magical relationship.
Suddenly I feel a kick from within,
as if to remind me that our time alone is limited.
And I wonder: how could I ever love another child as I love you?
Then he is born,
and I watch you.
I watch the pain you feel at having to share me
as you’ve never shared me before.
I hear you telling me in your own way,
“Please love only me.”
And I hear myself telling you in mine,
“I can’t,” knowing, in fact, that I never can again.
You cry. I cry with you.
I almost see our new baby as an intruder
on the precious relationship we once shared.
A relationship we can never quite have again.
But then, barely noticing,
I find myself attached to that new being,
and feeling almost guilty.
I’m afraid to let you see me enjoying him — as though I am
betraying you.
But then I notice your resentment change,
first to curiosity,
then to protectiveness,
finally to genuine affection.
More days pass,
and we are settling into a new routine.
The memory of days with just the two of us is fading fast.
But something else is replacing those wonderful times we shared,
just we two.
There are new times — only now, we are three.
I watch the love between you grow,
the way you look at each other, touch each other.
I watch how he adores you — as I have for so long.
I see how excited you are by each of his new accomplishments.
And I begin to realize that I haven’t taken something from you,
I’ve given something to you.
I notice that I am no longer afraid to share my love openly with
both of you.
I find that my love for each of you is as different as you are,
but equally strong.
And my question is finally answered, to my amazement.
Yes, I can love another child as much as I love you — only
differently.
And although I realize that you may have to share my time,
I now know you’ll never share my love.
There’s enough of that for both of you — you each have your own supply.
I love you — both. And I thank you both for blessing my life.”
Oh Amy…I’m so sorry I haven’t popped in lately. I’ve seen your tweets and I’m either up and elated or down and on the brink. I often can’t find the words.
Just know I’m thinking of you. It will get better. For both of us.
*hugs*
Auds