the times when i hate my husband
how dare he not birth this child? postpartum: not just the pretty parts.
The other day, I woke up crying, resenting my husband and his freedom. Resenting how he could go anywhere and do anything without “consequence” or planning. Resenting how his body was still his, how he didn’t have to share his physicality or find himself again. Resenting how he didn’t have a scar across him, no visceral reminder of the moment that separated the before from the after, a mark of birth that often felt like a failure.
I resented that he wasn’t grappling with ordering swimsuits a size or two bigger and didn’t wake up and try on his wedding ring each morning, waiting for it to fit again. I resented that his wrists didn’t hurt with the tendonitis that invaded mine and that he seemingly slept through the night. I resented that he could work out the way he always had and didn’t have the long road of healing in front of him.
I felt guilty that he was doing the most to ensure we were cared for, my son and I completely reliant on him, and confused that the most felt like nothing at all. I felt ashamed that I felt I was doing the most, sustaining the life of another, and frustrated that it too felt like nothing at all. The markers of productivity that I was used to — a to-do list with some checked boxes, groceries in the fridge, household tasks done-ish — were absent which left me feeling so useless even though I was spending my days and nights doing what literally no one else could do: nursing my baby.
But nursing wasn’t tangible in the way a completed to-do list was. Laundry piled up. Dinners unmade. Dishes undone. Self-care skipped. Burp cloths everywhere. Monday blurred into Thursday. Boxes unchecked. How to feel worthy if I wasn’t doing?
Throughout early postpartum, I’ve felt helpless at times - unable to operate as myself in the world and unsure how to return to doing so. There is so much that no one tells you about the undoing en route to motherhood. So much I didn’t know to expect but couldn’t have prepared for anyway. Each time my reflection is unrecognizable in the mirror. Each time I “size up” after a lifetime of the world rewarding smaller. Each time the breastmilk leaks and the latch hurts and I feel like a failure for something so “natural” being so hard. Each time I realize my glutes are clenched, my core is MIA, and the gait of my walk is just…off. Each time I forget that I am rebuilding from scratch and still healing. Each time I forget that I will emerge anew eventually. Each time the advice and “should’s” are so loud, yet so not right.
A lot of days I feel like I should be doing more or what I’m doing isn’t right. And those days have a way of feeling so overwhelming, so ever-present and permanent, like an impenetrable fog that refuses to lift. My mind runs rampant on these not-so-good days as I scroll the depths of Reddit for answers or comfort or whatever I can find. Should he be on a schedule? Should we wean him off of contact naps? Do I need to start pumping? Did we do enough tummy time? Did I talk to him enough? Did I scroll too much? Did we miss the window for bottles? Will I regret the way I’m doing things? Why isn’t he as happy today as he was yesterday?
My mom told me this would happen, I think. Just when you have it figured out, they change, she said. Yet, even with expecting them, the changes still throw me for a loop. It can feel like the walls are closing in. Didn’t I just have this figured out?! We did Target and a walk and I moved the laundry from the dryer to the couch — why is he like this today? When will my baby be back?
Most of the time, the answer to that question is when the gas passes. I’m thankful to have a baby who is only upset when he’s filled with gas bubbles, hungry, or overtired — three things that are relatively easy to resolve. But, there are also growth spurts and curve balls and that one day where he only slept for 30 minutes but was happy as a clam (wtf was that), that remind me that this is just how it is. Babies change. Constantly. I can’t expect him to be the same day to day, just as he can’t expect that of me.
On our good days, I remember that the best answer is typically the simplest one - the one without hassle or a well-targeted marketing scheme or a high price tag. On our good days, I remember that no one and nothing can replace my intuition. On our good days, I remember that every day is different and accept that the practice of surrender is the only way through. It is not my season to decide or lead or my routine that is to be adhered to. I am at the mercy of this little bundle, and the days are smoother when I remember that they are no longer mine to plan and control. I want to control it all, but I can’t. And so commences another lesson in letting go.
On our good and not-so-good days, there will inevitably be a moment when I am reminded that I am a mom and such a big title takes getting used to. On our good and not-so-good days, there will inevitably be a moment when my baby smiles, seemingly right into my soul, erasing the pain, grief, frustration, and doubt and reminding me that even if I don’t always feel like enough, I am more than enough to him. On our good days and not-so-good days, there will inevitably be a moment when I see my husband and son look at each other or sleep chest to chest, and I fumble with the reckoning that my whole world is now in one room. And then I forgive him and remember that there is no one else I would rather wade through the depths of parenthood with.
ON THE MIND…
I’m trying to find nursing-friendly clothes that don’t feel ick with peek-a-boob zippers and weird waistlines after a whole breastfeeding situation in a coffee shop yesterday. I’m leaning towards gathering a collection of oversized linen and cotton button-downs and hoping I don’t pass out in the North Carolina heat. Taking suggestions.
I’ve always been someone who lived for my alone time and the transition to motherhood hasn’t left me with much of that. It was something that I was worried about during pregnancy, but I’m finding that in postpartum not having as many of those moments just makes the ones I do have all the sweeter. I’m trying to take note of when I feel most like myself — just Grace, not Grace the mother or the wife. Coffee dates, writing, baths, and waking up earlier than feels good just to have a moment alone.
I’m 7 weeks postpartum, and I took little one out alone, just me and him, for the first time yesterday. I forgot the diaper bag and my breast pads. I forgot to wear breastfeeding-friendly clothing. I brought a stroller, forgetting there were stairs, and it really showed that I’m used to my husband carrying the team on his back. But, we both made it in one piece and with only one larger-than-life blowout.
ON THE TABLE…
Green Chili Chicken Burritos — loved them with chicken trying these with ground beef this time around
Lemon Pesto Burrata Gnocchi — added bone-in chicken thighs and burrata was $12/ball at the store so we skipped (still so good)
Prosciutto, Peach, & Burrata Pizza — fresh peaches have arrived in North Carolina. HI, SUMMER <3
Love you Gracie. I love the pics your mom sends, makes my days so much better.
I lasted 6 weeks breastfeeding feeding. It was very difficult for me.