Postpartum

Overwhelmed with gratitude.

"Thank you, God," continually on my lips.

Exhausted like never before.

I forgot how small they are.

I forgot how hard this is.

Trying to soak up every little moment.

Epsom salt baths to speed up the healing process.

But mostly for my mental health.

They say don't blink. I blink.

The lip quivers.

The coos.

Their smell.

Their tiny toes.

Don't forget this. I'll probably forget.

What day is it?

Baby's first bath. 1,742 photos later.

So many cheek kisses.

They already look different.

I catch my son having a moment with his new baby sister.

I'm so proud to be his mom.

//

"Have I always gotten this angry, randomly?"

"Your hormones are all over the place," my friend assures me, "give yourself grace."

Or am I trying to justify my sin? I think to myself.— Probably both.

//

My toddler randomly says, "I love her little ears." I do, too, sweetie.

Weren't you just a baby?

My heart feels as though it will burst out of my chest at any moment.

It's all too much, in the best way.

And I love you even more than that. He reminds me.

My mind can't comprehend His love.

//

The endless snuggles. I could stay here forever. I just might.

"Mom, I need help in the bathroom!"

And we're up.

//

I enjoy these quiet feedings in the middle of the night.

I think to myself a mere one hour in.

//

She's out. I hunch over in slow motion holding her tightly to my body.

I lay her down so carefully. For the fifth time.

A few pats on the butt. I back away slowly.

I am confident in that transfer.

I finally lay my head on the pillow. She starts crying.

Lord, please help her go back to sleep.

I'm begging Him.

She does not go back to sleep.

Discouraged.

I've been up for five hours, it's your turn.

But I know you only got 3 hours of sleep the night before

and you have to go to work tomorrow.

I feel guilty.

My compassion tank ran out two hours ago, though.

I tap him, again.

This won't last forever. We will sleep again. I remind myself.

//

My family and friends meet her for the first time.

They love her.

Is other people loving my children a love language? It should be.

//

"I need Z pictures. I miss her."

I respond with over 17 photos. From the last 10 minutes.

//

Am I crazy? "No, you're postpartum," my friend reminds me, again.

//

Our community generously showers us with homemade meals, prayers, and encouragement.

"How are you doing?" they all ask with tilted heads and a sympathetic smile.

"We're good," I say back, "right this moment at least."

I laugh and change the subject.

I don't have time (read: capacity) to explain how I'm actually doing.

//

I forgot to send a thank you note to my neighbor for the gift they dropped off the week she was born.

Surely, she'll understand. Right?

I'll write one tomorrow. I forget, again.

//

I snap at my husband. I apologize. Or did I?

"We're on the same team," we remind each other.

Fighting to believe it at 3:37 am.

//

My parents cleaned the whole house before they left.

It stays clean for all of two seconds.

Please come back, mom. I need you. I will never stop needing you.

I wonder if my kids will need me in the same way. I hope so.

//

"Do you want me to take all the kids out for a few hours so you can have time to yourself?" my husband asks. Yes, please.

Thank you, God, for my sweet husband.

//

We're forced to slow down and rest. A gift.

Could life always be like this? I think to myself.

It could.

//

"Can you believe these beautiful children are ours?" I say again, randomly.

We grin at each other. I can't imagine life without them or you.

I start to imagine it, I start crying.

//

I'm feeling disconnected from my husband.

It's like we're ships in the night—

endlessly feeding children, putting them to bed, correcting them, changing diapers,

and trying (failing) to catch up on sleep.

Sprinkled with a touch of impatience.

Will it always be this way? (no, it won't. I know that.)

We sneak away for a few hours together. Oh yeah, we're best friends.

We just have a newborn.

This is just a season. This is just a season. This is just a season.

//

"I'm sad and angry and I don't even know why,"

I tell my husband from the passenger seat.

He looks at me with kind eyes, "Do you need to get a good cry out before going in?"

Yes, yes I do. I feel known.

I weep into my hands in the front seat. Our kids waiting in the back.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and leaves it there.

I wipe my tears and we all go inside.

//

Trying to learn about a new human for the first time.

Surely, she'll be similar to the last one? Nope.

//

"Can you pray for me? It's been a hard day."

"Praying." "Praying now!!!" "Of course. Love you."

//

The wheels are starting to fall off.

Oh, they're definitely off.

"You're exhausted, why don't you head to bed and I'lI take the first shift?"

You're right. But I'm so sad to miss another night of pillow talk.

Will we ever go to bed at the same time again?

(Yes, yes we will.)

//

Paternity leave is over already?

We didn't do everything I dreamed we would do.

The family outings, finishing the project, hanging the gallery walls.

I guess I forgot I'd be postpartum.

I'm sad.

What job could he do where we all get to be together all the time?

Cue another good cry.

I do feel a little better after that one.

Crying always helps.

Crying is healing.

//

He goes back to work.

The kids are dressed and fed, we make it to school on time.

I kind of feel like Wonder Woman.

I forgot how much I love our weekdays together.

The kids and I. Routines. The mundane.

We can do this. We are doing this.

God's grace is all over every bit of it.

This little human is changing our family, our lives.

In ways we won't know till heaven.

//

Alas, "I think I like this little life" continues to live rent-free in my head.

And it's true, I do love this little life.