Motherhood Mentality

I had a baby nine weeks ago today. Following her birth, the people in the room couldn’t stop talking about me. Everywhere I went, close and distant family members commented on my delivery. How strong I was. How amazing I was. How it must have been so easy because [I] did it all the right way…

Nine weeks ago, the worried warnings concerning Post-Partum Depression began. You have to cry, they told me. You have to release your emotions. You were so calm in the delivery. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t even squeeze Shane’s hand. You have to cry. Otherwise… They never say exactly what the otherwise is, but I know.

I kept waiting. Expecting. The emotions would come, I figured. The feelings of inadequacy. The feelings of insecurity. I keep waiting, and they haven’t come. In their place, however, comes the strongest, most mystical, most incredible sense of overwhelm I’ve ever experienced.

I had no idea life could be like this.

Everyday I am thankful for something new. Her smile. Her little nose. Her precious mouth, the mirror of her daddy’s. Her ears. The curls of her baby hair. Her little fingernails. Her bright, contagious grin. I am thankful she is there when I wake up in the morning, and I am thankful she is there when I go to bed at night. I am exhausted, dehydrated, and sore, but I am thankful.

Yesterday, I stood in front of the mirror, critiquing my post-baby body. I lost the baby weight almost immediately after Arabella’s birth; within a week, I was able to wear my pre-pregnancy clothes. Nine weeks later, though my body hasn’t changed, I no longer feel comfortable with my body: my stomach is still rounded and soft; my breasts are so much larger than before.

Last night, though, I appreciated every bit of the latter. As my daughter cried in hunger, as I latched her on, as I felt her suckle and begin to eat, I realized – though not for the first time – how absolutely, incredibly lucky I am. In spite of all that I am not happy about, in spite of the recurring things in my life that I can’t stand, in spite of all that is uncontrollable, I am really, really lucky. I have enough food to eat that my body is able to nourish my daughter’s.

That is when the near depression hit. I can feed her. She’s up to 11lbs, 7oz from her birth rate of 6lbs, 15oz. She’s happy. She’s healthy. I’m making her that way.

Somewhere else, though, it’s not same. Somewhere else, a newborn, an infant, a child screams in hunger. Somewhere else, a child is so malnourished that he or she can’t even cry tears. Somewhere else, a mother has a post-partum body with breasts that can’t nourish her child. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like – to hear your baby scream and cry in hunger and to feel betrayed by your own body for not being able to feed him or her. It seems so wrong to me. That’s what a woman’s breasts are for: to feed her young. How can we have them and not have them work appropriately?

I suspect, though, that it’s even worse to see your child when he or she has realized that screaming and crying isn’t going to bring them food…

Shane and I don’t have much money, but I’m pretty sure I’d give it all to a poor, dejected woman with a hungry baby.