Fraud, Faux, Fool: Surviving the First Week of #MomLife

“The computer is dead.

Get the charger. Wait for it to load.

Should I pump while I do this? The pump is dirty–that’ll take time to set up. No. Just worry about this. Pumping after—there won’t be time.

Okay, okay, the computer is on. Log into Gmail. Select. Click.

Okay she’s not here yet.

F***, I look like a mess.

Tissue ready.

It’s loading, connecting.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Hi.”

__________________________________________________________________________

I tried to swallow back the sadness—I really tried. But the heaviness in my body kept rising, pressing against my chest as I looked toward the screen. The moment her eyes met mine, her expression soft and welcoming, her brows gently furrowed, I knew. This was it. No more pushing it down. The bubble popped.

I literally cried out loud–virtually–to another human, I have never physically met. My therapist.

“For the first time since leaving the hospital with my, MY, tiny little human, I grew from scratch. I could feel something ”

The uncontrollable burst of emotion was undoubtedly not the “new motherhood bliss” anyone might have anticipated. I couldn’t breathe. The tears didn’t stop. They just kept coming for the entire session.

For the first time since leaving the hospital with my, MY, tiny little human, I grew from scratch. I could feel something. Something more than the constant rush of panic:

“Is he up? Did he cry? He’s cold? I can’t–he’s not latching! Milk, get the milk! Can he breathe? Is it hot? Is he hot? Do we have that? We need more, get more! He threw up! Poop–he pooped, it’s on me! Is he alive?”

Ingredients for Breakdown

• 1 heaping scoop of sleep deprivation

• 1 tbsp of postpartum depression

• 1 tsp of postpartum anxiety

• ½ tsp of postpartum rage

Whisk all ingredients in a cup. Use a KitchenAid or hand mixer at speed 5. Mix for 7 days straight.

Optional Add-ins:

• Breast milk leaking on all clothing.

• “Food, when?”

• Over-caffeinated. 

• Pain, bleeding, and a diaper. (For you, not the baby.)

There I was, sitting in a room filled with baby items I carefully picked out over 9 months. A light blue lamp with a beige lampshade to match the diaper zone with 10 perfectly snug newborn diapers tucked into the striped diaper caddy.

All still snuggly taunting me as I sit there in utter defeat. A fools dream—a magical new season of life. Motherhood.

I failed. I must be failing. This can’t possibly be how everyone feels. 

Pregnant, looking for inspiration, I scrolled day after day on Instagram, watching as new moms across America bounced their babies in their BabyBjorn bouncers. Slowly making a bottle in their Baby Brezzas while holding their newborns so gracefully, perfectly in frame. Walking down the street in their UPPAbaby Vista’s.

Hashtag #HotMomWalk.

It must be me. I’m a bad mom—Already.

So, I cried–loud and uncontrollably–for an unknown amount of time. To a woman I had bonded with—virtually, for over a year. Someone I felt the safest with to let all my bubbled-up emotions pour out. 

The tissues were gone in the first minute. I grabbed anything I could find: a dirty onesie, a burb cloth, and finally my shirt, because nothing could get me up from letting it out. I needed her. 

She let me take the space. She just sat there, watching me cry through my entire session. 

“It’s horrible!” Cry, cry, cry. 

“Nobody told me!” Blow my nose. 

“Labor was so awful!” Cry, cry, cry. 

Did I say anything else? Only she knows. 

Will I ever ask her? No. 

Why? Because when I think about that session with my therapist, all I can remember is the release–something I knew I needed, something more women surely need access to. 

The first week as a new mom? I will never look back on it with fondness.

But now? Well, now it’s as dreamy as I imagined.