POSTPARTUM DIARY
A personal account of my first few weeks of motherhood.
Day 1: It’s a couple of hours after I’ve given birth. In the minutes following the delivery of my son, my breath came in ragged gulps. Seeing my baby for the first time, held aloft between my knees by the doctor, I cried with joy and relief while gasping for air after the great effort of pushing. As I held him to my chest, someone pressed firmly on my stomach until the placenta came out, the afterbirth, and finally I was covered and allowed to sit up. My baby latched onto my breast right away, and I marveled at the utterly new sensation of feeding a human – my son - from my body.
The last of the visitors for that night are cooing over the baby. As my vitals are checked, a wave of nausea envelops me. For the third time over the past twenty-eight hours of labor, I feel that I am about thirty seconds away from vomiting, and what is worse is that I’m not yet allowed to stand since the numbness in my legs from the epidural is still wearing off, so I have to simply hold a blanket near my face until, somehow, the nausea subsides and I sink back against the bed, the recurring foe defeated.
A nurse I haven’t met before arrives at my bedside and explains that she is going to help clean me up before taking me to the postpartum room. She has kind eyes beneath lush fake lashes, and even if I didn’t feel a sense of trust I would still be at her mercy as she helps me onto a special sort of dolly which she rolls to the bathroom. She measures how much urine and blood I release, then fits me with a pad and icepack. She rolls me down the hall and I smile weakly at the entourage; a nurse wheeling my baby in his clear plastic tray, and my husband Andy pushing a cart with all the things we brought to the hospital with us.
We are situated in the recovery room and eventually left for the night. I eat a bit, my first solid food in over a day. I get up and go to the bathroom. In an instant, I am freezing cold and shaking all over. I double over in shock, touching the floor for balance. I return to bed and pull the blanket around me, but the cold persists, so deep I swear I can feel it in my bones. I call out to Andy, who is sleeping in the cot next to me. He lays beside me, wrapping me in his arms. The shaking eventually subsides, just in time for our baby to begin to cry. I put my bed into a seated position as my husband gently hands him to me to be nursed.
Throughout the night and next day, nurses come in to check on us. They take my temperature and blood pressure and have me lay down as they press on my stomach. An IV was placed in my left arm during labor so I could receive fluids and medicines, and though I’ve been unhooked still they left the catheter in just in case I needed to be given anything else. When they finally remove it, I’m relieved both to be rid of the needle in my arm and to know that I’m in the clear. It leaves a large, swollen bruise which will heal slowly over the coming week.
Day 2: On our second night in the hospital after the birth, baby sleeps for over five hours straight before waking up. This feels like a small miracle to Andy and I, who are in desperate need of a bit of unbroken sleep. It is 6:00am and I am feeding him when a nurse arrives. I tell her in a whisper when he last ate. She huffs, chastising Andy and I for letting baby sleep so long, telling us that we should have woken him after two or three hours to feed. I feel devastated. In the shower, I press my hands against the wall and sob.
To our great relief, the doctor arrives later on and waves away the concerns of him sleeping too long, saying that babies can usually self-regulate and that a longer sleep here and there isn’t cause for concern. Sweet validation.
During labor, there were a few hours of concern with a strong possibility of c-section. I wasn’t dilating and baby’s heart rate was dipping during every contraction. My doctor was away that weekend so Andy and I waited anxiously for the examination of a doctor we’d never met. My one sense of security was that the new doctor, like mine, was a woman. I’m just more comfortable around doctors who are women and know first hand what I’m going through. Upon arrival the new doctor assessed the situation and immediately stated a course of action. The monitors on my belly were placed internally. Liquid was flushed through to loosen the umbilical cord, which she suspected was around baby’s neck. Her plan worked. She was competent and to the point and brought us peace. She felt like a more commanding (though still kind) version of the midwives I’d known for the births of my siblings.
Day 3: We are finally released from the hospital and able to take baby home with us. Everything is new and mildly terrifying – putting him into the car seat (correctly?), carrying him out and putting him in the car, and driving with such a precious load. While I sit in the back with baby, Andy takes the most cautious turn onto the access road of his life.
We make it home and slowly figure out the new details of our lives: the best places for me to nurse baby, how Andy can be supportive, and when to nap with baby versus get things done around the house. The next few nights continue to be ones of disrupted sleep, with me getting up when baby fusses in his bedside bassinet and taking him to the gently-lit nursery to feed.
Day 6: We have another night where it feels as though every time I put baby back in his bassinet he cries immediately. Andy found an article on co-sleeping which detailed how to do it safely, so he recommends we try it right then. We didn’t know what a pivotal moment that would be for us. Being able to nurse baby in bed while laying down is a game-changer. There are still times when I have to get up and change or rock him, but for the most part our sleep is greatly improved. We can go through the day without feeling like zombies. As a bonus, anytime I wake up at night my beautiful baby is right there beside me. I see his tiny, fragile, trusting innocence and my heart is flooded with love for him. He sleeps more deeply beside me, his head cradled on the crook of my arm, and I sleep more soundly knowing he’s there, safe.
There are downsides, of course. I’m limited to sleeping on my left side or my back, and the arrangement of covers is strategically careful to keep baby free of them. So, I’m often a little stiff and a little cold. However the hardest part is that I can no longer cuddle with Andy. He can spoon me gently before falling asleep, yet our tradition of a full embrace at the beginning and end of the night must be put on hold. I miss it, aching to be held.
Day 7: I go to take a nap while Andy and visiting in-laws watch the baby, and as soon as I lay down, I begin to cry. I can’t seem to stop the waves of sadness pressing over me. An hour or so later, Andy walks in with baby, asking if I was able to rest. He sees my face and sits beside me as I take baby and begin to nurse. Putting an arm around me, he gently asks what’s on my mind. I try to explain, starting with how my body feels foreign to me right now; the empty space inside me has left me feeling hollow. I miss having my baby safe in my womb, and as much as I love to see him and hold him, I am beset with a slew of fears for his wellbeing. What if I’m not feeding him correctly? What if he gets hurt? He needs constant care, and I am the main caregiver by default, which is beautiful and exhausting, a privilege and a weight all at once.
Physically, I am still very tender from the birth. I feel as though I want to be gentle with myself but am not sure how. Each time I sit down, stand up, walk fast, and use the bathroom brings pain. Andy listens patiently. He encourages me. What I can’t yet fully explain is that I feel like a different person. There is a per-motherhood part of me which is gone forever, and it hurts. I am ashamed of my feelings, quickly telling Andy how I love our baby with my whole heart and am so happy to be a mother, despite my tears. I tell him I know I just have a lot of hormones right now, too. He says it’s okay. It’s all okay. He wipes away my tears.
Day 8: When I take baby to the nursery to feed him in a quiet space, I can hear laughter and activities going on without me, and I feel stupidly left out and alone, crying again.
I put baby down for a nap on a large pillow, made for infants, which someone gave us. With hope, I wonder if he could sleep there during the night, still beside me yet slightly elevated, giving me a little more freedom of movement. That idea is squashed when Andy looks at the tag, which has a skull and crossbones warning about never letting a baby sleep on it. Apparently the makers didn’t want the possible liability should a baby roll over in their sleep and suffocate, thus warning that the pillow be for awake babies only. Defeated, it’s all I can do to keep from wailing. Oh baby, my baby, how fragile you are, and what a road it is to keep you safe.
Day 10: I shower while baby rests in the bouncer seat. I reflect on how I’m starting to fall into a daily routine which still includes attention to hair and makeup, albeit somewhat modified. For two days in a row, Andy told me I looked pretty, and it fed my spirit. I want to make an effort to look nice, even though I’m just caring for baby at home, so for him to notice and appreciate feels good. I also feel the first hint of desire for sex return. There’s no way I can have sex right now of course, not for another five weeks, but the yearning is there. Overall, I’m feeling fairly normal … until I pull my towel away from my body and see a bright red rivulet of blood streaking down my leg. It’s a little thing, yet in that moment it feels somewhat defeating. I clean up and put on a bulky pad with a sigh.
Day 13: It’s a Saturday. Andy is working in his office and I am watching the baby. For me, it is the same as every other day, my new normal of feeding, changing, rocking, and seeing what bits of things I can accomplish while he is sleeping. It feels monotonous. I miss having a weekend. I think about how there is a part of me which will miss going to work. I’m miss conversations with coworkers, dressing in office attire and going out to lunch. I consider, for the first time; can I do this? Can this baby and this home be my life? Is it what I want? I consider it, yet the answer for me is clear. I like my job, but it’s not my passion. Would I return to it and spend my time making travel arrangements and taking meeting minutes over time spent on the care and development of my baby? No. I tell myself I’ll adjust. This beginning phase is hard, but it will pass.
At dinner, Andy asks how I am. I end up crying hard against his shoulder. I tell him that I think I’ll be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. I feel selfish saying it out loud, but I miss my freedom to go and do whatever I wanted. I have a whole new purpose in front of me, raising our son, yet I feel lost. I want Andy to hold me tight, yet I’m holding the baby, careful and close. I miss how much Andy and I used to touch. I’m pouring out all this care and affection on baby but missing the two-way street of care through physical touch with my husband.
That night, Andy holds the baby on the couch while I snuggle against him. He tells me I’m a good mom.
Day 14: Baby is two weeks old. Andy and I take him out to my family’s house that afternoon for a cookout. I wear a cover and nurse baby in the living room while chatting with family and eating, until he grows fussy and I retreat to a bedroom to soothe him. Once calmed and asleep, I return and hand him over to my sister’s eager arms. Between my sisters and Mom I know he’s in loving hands, so I head outside to take advantage of some free time. There, I find Andy and sit with him and friends, then go to the pool and put my feet in the water. Laughing with my siblings and leaning against Andy, I feel a lightness come over me. A moment to breathe.
Week 3: The baby blues continue for another week, with ups and downs and tears. Just as I wonder how long I’ll feel this emotional and fragile, the cloud lifts. One evening I tell Andy that I am happy, and he knows what I mean. He is relieved and thankful to hear it. We are a family, and it’s different and overwhelming and magical. This tiny, absolutely beautiful baby is ours. Our son! How wild it is. My heart grows with love for him. I cannot kiss him enough.
Week 4: One day I realize that my milk supply is not enough so I begin to supplement with formula. I meet with a lactation consultant and am put on a schedule of pumping every three hours, then nursing, then sometimes pumping three times in an hour. I take a pile of supplements. I follow this regimen faithfully for a little over a week before realizing it’s crazy. My supply is what it is: it’s not increasing. I hate pumping before breastfeeding, feeling that it would be more natural the other way round. The supplements can cause extra gas for baby (which is already uncomfortable enough for the little guy), and on a mixed diet of formula and breastmilk he is thriving. He is plumping up perfectly, full-cheeked and content. I felt so guilty, wondering if I was doing something wrong and feeling as though I didn’t measure up, until I accepted that I was agonizing over nothing. So, I quit. The formula shortage is in full swing but my husband ordered a hefty boxful as soon as we realized our need. I’m thankful to have the option to feed our baby both ways. He is healthy and happy: nothing else matters.
Throughout: At times, my husband and I run into different points of view on caring for our baby. In these conflicts, my heart feels wrecked, smashed into by the fear that I am failing to properly care for the two people I love most. That my best efforts are questionable. Yet, we listen and talk. We know we each want the best for our baby so we work it out. We come together, bound in love as a family. A family. What an incredible thing to experience.
Now: I think about how, in that hospital room with my new baby, I felt both fragile and strong. It was the hardest thing my body had ever done, harder than running a half marathon or hiking up a mountain. (After those accomplishments I celebrated with mimosas and a hearty brunch. After birth I experienced my first interrupted sleep). My body was producing milk while continuing to bleed, both things coming with degrees of pain. I think of how many times my Mom went through it all, with home births! Wonder woman.
Yet, those things seem easily straightforward at times compared to raising my son. What is twenty-eight hours of labor, with nurses telling you what to do and giving you drugs, compared to eighteen years of child rearing? I’ve googled everything from normal poop color and amount to signs of early teething, finding that each day brings something new. New challenges and new delights, all because of this tiny one who falls asleep in my arms and grins at his daddy and has so beautifully transformed our lives.
In the great rush of after, life as a parent to a brand new baby pouring in and filling every crevice, it’s easy to forget the trauma of birth and only think of the wonder. It’s a good thing to forget, to be present in the now rather than lingering, yet a part of me needs to remember; remember what it costs to bring a life into this world, and how each woman who does it is stronger for it. How I’d do it all again for my son, my baby for whom I have a myriad of endearments: my little love, blue-eyed bandit, babecito, beamish boy, little buddy, mijo. Because of him, I am stronger. For him, I’ll be as strong as he needs.
