The First Three Months of Motherhood — A Bedtime Story

She’s nicer than I am. In the last few months, I’ve recited this book teary-eyed, teeth clenched, while slugging a well-deserved bourbon, but never smiling on a lawn chair. At times, it’s become nearly a prayer as my daughter thrashes around in her crib the instant her back hits the mattress despite having been knocked out 1.2 seconds prior. I’ll start whispering “You’re okay. You’re okay” while my brain is silently screaming “GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP!”

I said “You’re okay” 12 times today. That’s a substantial decrease from the 50+ times I said it in the first six weeks of my daughter’s life. It clearly has little impact on her, which begs the question of why I keep saying it. I’m guessing it’s because I need to hear it more than she does.

A dear friend who loves me enough to scare the shit out of me told me that I wouldn’t remember much of the first six weeks. That’s pretty accurate. I remember the sleep dep, how much I hated waking up between 10 and 2, how hard it is to hold an infant with no head control and do pretty much anything else, and how much I adored her. That’s about it. I overreacted, I cried, I avoided asking for help, and I survived.

I took my daughter to Mommy and Me yoga for the first time at 7 weeks. I remember the congratulations from the other mommies who confessed they were barely able to get out of the house at 7 weeks. They failed to recognize my desperation, the only motivation that makes it worth the two hours of prep work it took to get there. I admit I was ill prepared for the “feed as you need” policy and the number of breasts I saw in a 45 minute period, but being in a public place where people laughed in solidarity as my kid screamed unnecessarily was invaluable. I thought I wouldn’t need a “Mommy” group. I was wrong.

At 9 weeks, finally back in our own home (long story), I was shocked at how easily Little Bit took to her crib. She started sleeping through the night at 10 weeks. She sleeps to sounds of the ocean since my brilliant mommy friends demanded the purchase of several sound machines. When we took her to the actual beach at 11 weeks, she fell asleep in the ocean, ginormous life jacket and all. I will never, ever be without a double A battery again. Sleep is a beautiful, magical thing, and it makes all of life seem more manageable.

So much so that now that I’m getting some, sleep that is, I’m starting to have energy to address the more subtle impacts of our daughter’s arrival. The effects its had on my body, and, consequently, my self image. The changes its created in my marriage. The 12 times I said “You’re okay” today meant something different than 3 months ago. Now, just one of those meant “Go the fuck to sleep!” while the rest were a combination of “You’re gonna have to entertain yourself for one freakin minute!”, and “You’re so friggin cute when you cry alligator tears.” There’s progress on the baby front. Time to tackle the me front.

It is hard to give up your body for 9+ months. It does feel like an alien invasion and they don’t give the ship back in the same condition they found it. These aren’t Girl Scout aliens…which is unfortunate, because I would kill for a Thin Mint. I was my ideal weight for 4 weeks. And it will probably take me another 4 months to get back there (okay 6 months with the aforementioned cookies). Even when I do, my body will look different, my clothes will fit different, I will feel…different. I’m so proud of my body for housing our alien and delivering her safely in to this world. I’m thrilled that my doctor successfully preserved the future of my vagina and it is once again a multi-functional organ. But, I’m struggling to feel like its MY body again. Right now, it feels like a slightly oversized hotel with a happenin’ after hours scene.

I’m also not a good sharer. I’ve always drawn a very large, very uncrossable line when it comes to sharing my husband’s adoration, affection, or attention with another woman. It never occurred to me that that “other” would be my daughter. It melts my heart to see how much he loves her, how dedicated he is to our family, and how difficult it’s been for him to be away from her. I find it hard to talk to him about something other than her because he is the only other person on the planet that loves her as much as I do. And yet, I want and need him to see me, hear me, love ME. Just me. It’s a hard ask, not one I’ve managed super well in the reverse. Sometimes it feels like a selfish ask. But as I flounder to find myself, I need his steadiness, his unequivocal reassurance that he loves me, that we are “same, same.” I guess a baby changes everything, even the good things.

My daughter is now 3 months and 3 weeks old. She talks incessantly, practicing a guttural, raspy series of sounds that will only serve her well if she opens her own 900 number. She’s still sleeping through the night, although she often wakes at 5am instead of 6am which is just evil. She loves lights and sounds, hates her car seat, and is wholly indifferent to 90% of the toys I’ve bought her. She is developmentally normal, physically healthy, and full of personality. We are incredibly blessed.

But she is still a baby. And I am still tired. And we are still figuring this out. And I do not expect that to happen anytime soon.

I’ve passed “survival at all costs” and have moved on to “there will be good days and awful days.” There’s still no right or wrong, just a shit ton of trial and error topped with a shooter of self preservation. It’s an accomplishment to keep her alive, fed, and not covered in her own feces. The rest is optional on most days and downright impossible on others. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate that can go to hell or at least offer to hold her so I can wash the poop off myself while you’re busy judging. I need a lot of grace right now. From everyone, myself included.

My experience of motherhood is not unique, neither is my accounting of it. But that might be the point. This motherhood thing is a process, different for everyone, but somehow collectively the same. There’s strength in that. And understanding. And coffee. I’m picking my head up off the mat and starting to see the world around me again. When my Charlie and I lay facing each other, tummies down, heads up, I get why crawling seems so hard, and scary. We’ve got to get our knees under us and face what’s above our heads. I’m grateful we can do it together. I’m gonna need her help.