Sorry for the radio silence. Get ready for a painfully long, much needed catharsis from a first-time new mom.
I got all knocked-up by my husband 11 months ago and I had a wonderful pregnancy, a fast and painful but smooth delivery of a healthy, genuinely adorable baby boy. He’s the first Rocco with my husband’s family name–in other words, he’s Jesus reincarnated for them. Or Muhammed, if you prefer. Everyone is so politically correct now a day.
Anywho, my son is 10 weeks old. My son. My son. I have a son. It’s insane. In 10 weeks, I’ve learned a lot. Namely, about myself. And not all are such great things.
Number 1:
I really enjoy sleep. Really enjoy it. So now I understand that irritating “Get your sleep now” threats that other parents give you when you’re pregnant. Misery enjoys company. How many times did couples look at each other across the table, sip their wine conspiratorially and smirk, knowing we had no clue what the fuck was on it’s way. I would enjoy my sparkling water with lime and swear I wouldn’t be the kind of mom that is miserable like these people.
Enter flashback to 2 weeks postpartum where I have bleeding nipples, a screaming infant at 3am, a sleeping husband and raging case of the baby blues.
I hated my life. I regretted everything, including having a child. I love my child more than my life but I had this horrible little voice in my mind whispering that if I had the choice–would I have gotten pregnant? Now, I would do it 100 times over because Rocco is my best creation. My most beautiful miracle. But at that point? I’m ashamed to say I don’t know what I would have answered.
And I don’t think I’m alone. I suspect many women feel this way, especially with their first child. But we’re not allowed to tell anyone. We all have to post Facebook pics of our adorable kids and pretend we’re Superwomen. That we’re over the moon and enjoying every single sleep deprived, hormonal, depressed, excited, terrified, anxious, lonely second.
Number 2: Breastfeeding sucks.
Now before you get all judge-y on me, here’s a frame of reference. I am a physician assistant that works in OBGYN. I know every single benefit of nursing a baby at least 6 months. I shove it down every throat of every patient. I always allow my patients to choose whether they want to breastfeed or bottle feed with formula, but we all strongly educate them on the benefits of breastfeeding (because there are so many. It just is the truth.)
So imagine my surprise when I fucking hated it. My son latched like shit for the first 24 hours and I had extensive cuts on my nipples. It felt like Rocco had razorblades attached to his adorable pink gums. It took literally 7 days of pumping, nipple balms, collustrum moisturizing, careful latching technique, 4 different lactation consultants, etc before I could nurse effectively. And then we were off to the races. I nursed his little ass every 2 hours.
And I almost lost my mind.
I am a very type A person. VERY. And I felt tethered to this baby by my breasts. I couldn’t leave my house because he needed me. I was his source of sustenance. Rocco couldn’t leave the house because of how young he was but I would have to do errands in short bursts of time between feeds while someone watched him. Claustrophobia to the 19th degree.
I nursed him exclusively for 1 whole month. Every feeding lasted 40 minutes. That meant that every 2 hours, I was stuck for 40 minutes feeding him. Then, change him. Then maybe put him down. By this time an hour and 10 minutes has elapsed and you know you need to repeat this pattern in a half hour. There isn’t a word for the frustration that gave me. Then, I initiated nursing and pumping. Finally, Joe (the husband in question) told me to cut the shit. I was unbearable to be around. I began exclusively pumping and handed the kid and bottle to other people to feed him. It was an amazingly liberating feeling. Now, he’s 2.5 months and I’m giving a bottle of formula at night (combined with breast milk) to attempt to get Rocco to sleep longer and I pump intermittently throughout the day.
There is definitely a beautiful feeling of love and intensity when you nurse your child and those big blue eyes take you in. The bond is incredible. But, I totally feel like it’s a day at a time battle for me. Not to mention my sister in law has nursed both her children exclusively for 1 year of life–so no pressure or anything. Except she is fortunate enough to not need to work outside her home. Her nursing is her job.
Which brings me to point number 3.
Number 3: Career women vs. Mom
I love to work. I am NOT meant to be a stay at home mom.
In my opinion, maternity leave in this country is bullshit. No secret, yea? Except that now I see WHY. I have 12 weeks of maternity (6 paid, 6 job protection). My child is finally sleeping from 830p to 530a at 10 weeks old. He can’t hold his head up yet. He still needs to eat often. And my stress level is compounded by the huge ticking clock hanging above my head that says “You better get your shit together and get a routine because work is right around the corner.” My hospital has a huge breast feeding initiative. They don’t realize that it will NEVER be successful until women have at least 6 months of maternity leave. If I didn’t have to worry about work, I would not be rushing to have my 2.5 month old sleep on his own, in his room, through the night. I wouldn’t be stressed about banking milk so that he can have breast milk while I am away. Not to mention the realistic problem of finding time to pump while I’m seeing patients all day and in the operating room.
I am not made to be a housewife, despite my incredible Swiffer skills and boiling water talent.
I hate the fact that every day I have to be home by 6pm to cook dinner for Joe who comes home for 45 minutes; He eats and leaves to go back to the restaurants. In the meantime I am now stuck at home because I need to begin Rocco’s bedtime routine (sleep training 101) at 7:30pm to get him down by 8:30pm. My day is over at 6pm when I get home. I used to be out at all hours of the day, night, weekday/weekend. I would randomly go to the gym, sit by the water and read, drop by the restaurants for a late coffee or a drink, see my family, see my friends, etc. This can no longer happen. Even running an errand is extremely difficult as I can not do nearly enough nor have speed to do it with Rocco requiring so much luggage just to leave the house.
This brings me back to the newfound feeling of claustrophobia and loneliness.
Number 4: I am terrified about being responsible for another person.
I couldn’t be alone with Rocco for the first few weeks for fear that I would have no clue what to do if something happened. I slept terrified, would wake every hour to confirm that he was still breathing. And now that I know how to be alone with my child, I don’t want to be.
Number 5: Isolation is my new friend.
Lonely. That’s really the bottom line.
Since I have had Rocco, I initially felt very isolated. I couldn’t leave home for fear that if he got sick, we would need to go back to the hospital. Or I could leave, but he couldn’t. So disappearing for a few hours at at time would liberate me.
But my whole lifestyle has done a complete 180 degrees. That independence and spontaneity that I cherished is totally obliterated. None of my friends understand because they don’t have children. My family grew up where everyone lived in 3 homes so there was always someone around to talk to. I miss that now....and I never thought I would miss that. My husband comes home after 11pm and unless I want to continue to be sleep deprived, I try to be asleep by then since I anticipate waking up at 5:30am. I spend a large chunk of my day just with Rocco. Not to insult my little man, but he’s not a great conversationalist. Mainly, he just cries or goo-goo’s at me.
I don’t think I have postpartum depression. I’m overall happy with my life and I love him to death. I get up, do chores and try to get outside at least an hour a day. I think I just may be one of those women that isn’t crazy about the baby stage. Does this make me a shitty mom? Maybe. Who knows.
Since I’ve had Rocco I’ve learned that there are depths to emotion that you would never believe. The amount of love I have is legit frightening. It’s similar to the feeling of standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon and wondering what the littlest ant at the deepest crevice must feel. This enormous well of love exists. I thought I knew the deepest love when I married my husband. It’s like being in a pool and knowing you can touch the bottom but then with Rocco it’s equivalent to stepping off the continental shelf and seeing the depth of the ocean.
But that almost unfathomable capacity of love also extends to fear. Am I doing this right? Am I doing enough? Is he getting the right nutrients? Is he going to be traumatized if I don’t run to him every time he whimpers? Am I going to ruin him for life if I let him watch Peppa Pig on the iPhone? Is he going to have some complex if I don’t let him co-sleep? Is he going to die in his sleep? What if the soft ribbon holding the pacifier strangles him? What if he rolls over in his sleep and suffocates? What if he chokes on his spit? And on. and on. and on. And on.
I hope I’m adjusting well. I am trying to adjust to an entirely new life and I feel like I’m doing a good job considering I feel like I spend a tremendous amount of time doing it alone. My support system means well and they were wonderful for the first month postpartum, but they have their own lives to continue.
Stay tuned as I navigate this new heaven/hell of a life.
-Fran
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