Walking Dumpster Fire

I had my first child, Scarlett, just before I turned 28. She came into this world as nothing short of absolutely perfect. I couldn’t look in her eyes without tearing up those first few days after she was born. Once I saw her, I knew I had to do everything for her. Everything. 

There is something that no one tells a Mom after having a child. You will have this innate, almost guttural instinct that you must do everything for your brand-new baby, and if you can’t, you are failing. At least, this is how I felt. 

Another thing no one tells you about having a newborn is it can feel so isolating. We had Scarlett in a town in Iowa where I hardly knew anyone, and my family was thousands of miles away in Arizona. My Mom stayed with me for a week after having Scarlett, and then it was just my baby and me most days. Luckily, I had an incredible partner who was one of the most hands-on dads I had ever witnessed. However, his work hours were long, and by the second he would come home, I would shove Scarlett in his arms so I could take a shower for the day even though it was 5:30 pm, gorge myself on anything that looked like food, or just lay down without bursting into tears. 

For those first few months, I felt like I was an imposter. I told myself I couldn’t wear a particular outfit if it was too revealing, I couldn’t go out on the town, I couldn’t have sex, I couldn’t even be sexy because I was now a Mom. My old self was dead, and with it, everything I thought of myself was dead too. 

And like most women who are in my shoes, I stayed quiet. Because when you have a healthy, beautiful baby girl, you can’t complain. You have to remain forever grateful. Remind yourself how lucky you are. Smile when you want to cry because you can’t remember when you weren’t constantly thinking about someone else. Never complain about your exhaustion; look at your baby; how can you even think about complaining?

So, I put those thoughts and feelings in a jar, put a lid on it, and slid it on my shelf between the jar of “my identity” and my jar that was labeled, “You will never have sex again because your vagina is broken and sex is gross now.”

And the thing that was amazing, but also terrible for my request to actually complain, is that I had such an easy baby. Scarlett slept through the night consistently when she was 9 months old but was never erratic about her sleep. During the first couple of months, she woke up 3 times a night, 2 times a night until she was 6 months old, and 1 time a night until she was 9 months old. After that, she wouldn’t wake up at night unless she was sick or a tooth was coming in. Even when she did wake up, I would give her a bottle, change her if she was wet, and she would go right back to sleep. As a tot, she was a great sleeper. She has never once climbed into our bed in the middle of the night. Ever. Who is this kid?

Scarlett rarely got sick or even congested. As a baby, she scarfed down my milk like it was her last meal. Feeding her took 10 minutes, tops. She also never cried to cry. I almost always knew the reason for her fussiness and could fix it quickly. (The exception to this rule was about the first 3 weeks of her life. Scarlett would cry in my arms because I had no idea what I was doing and constantly thought I would accidentally kill her. So, my arms were stiff, and I could never relax. It’s strange that babies don’t like a stiff, terrified, and exhausted person holding them. I had no idea why she would cry in my arms, and my arms only, until her father–the baby whisperer–told me to relax. He had to tell me how to hold a BABY! How am I allowed to be a MOM? )

My baby was fantastic. How can I ever complain? How can I express anything but pure adoration? 

But holy crap, I was lonely. I had no one to talk to. And even if I had someone I could confide in, I don’t know if I could make my private feelings known. I could talk to my Mom, but I didn’t think she would understand. She was the type of Mom who never complained about being a mom. She was never too tired for us. She once told me, before I had my own child, that when she became a parent, it was expected for the Mom to basically give up her life and be the mother of her children and nothing else. 

I wanted to be the mother of my child and something else. 

I couldn’t talk to my two closest girlfriends, who knew more about me than my partner, because they hadn’t had their kids yet. And though they would listen with open ears and hearts and comfort me, they wouldn’t get it. No one understands postpartum feelings until they are in the trenches, living it themselves. 

Honestly, if I told anyone, I was afraid they would say what the voices in my head always told me: “Stop complaining. You have a great partner and a wonderful baby. No one wants to hear your senseless dribble. Suck it up and carry on.”

I felt alone and guilty. I felt guilty for even feeling alone. I felt guilty for having crap feelings at all in the moments where I should be the most present. I felt guilty because I wanted part of my old life back. I wanted that Carrie back. The one who was fun, sexy, silly, easygoing, and had a job she loved. Now, motherhood was my job (and a gig as a bartender two nights a week so I could talk to people who weren’t constantly drooling). I loved the days I had with Scarlett and me and wouldn’t change it for anything, but I needed more. And I hated that I needed more. Why wasn’t this enough? How did my Mom do this? Why do I feel like a monster? Not even a monster, because at least a monster doesn’t have to pretend to be a monster. I felt I was faking the whole motherhood experience.  

I could feel myself slowly spiraling. 

Then, when Scarlett was about 6 months old, her Dad had to go away on a business trip. This wasn’t the first time he left for a couple days, and actually, I enjoyed it when I would have a night to myself after putting Scarlett down. On nights like these, I would grab a cheap pizza, drink red wine, and binge-watch Gossip Girl. It was my own little heaven.

On this evening, while I was dreaming of my frozen Margherita pizza, Scarlett sat beside me on the couch when she pointed at my phone for the first time. This little human, who could only communicate with me through various cries and noises, was now pointing. I just stared at her, and she kept pointing. I looked at my phone, looked at her, and said, “Phone”. She LIT up! Her little laugh and big eyes looked up at me. She understood me; she could get through to me. She pointed at the table, and I said, “Coffee table.” She laughed again, in that pure joy kind of way. I picked her up, and we traveled throughout the home, her pointing at various items and me telling her what they were. Her favorite object was the light switch. I felt like I was holding a baby Helen Keller who just signed water. 

This wasn’t just a breakthrough between us; it was a breakthrough for me as a mother. I could do this. Hell, I was good at this! I finally saw myself for what I was at that moment. A loving mother who wasn’t ungrateful. Who still loved life, even if she felt her own life was on hold. A breath went through me as I realized that this too shall pass. So let’s enjoy the crap out of it before she is not looking for me for all the answers to her itty bitty life. 

My baby girl is now a tween and rarely points at things to wonder what they are. But we still have our little moments while watching Gilmore Girls, or having girls’ night where we go out to restaurants and try delicious food we haven’t had, or when we do a sweet burn on someone while doing a fist bump (the kid has got game).

Sometimes, I still feel lonely, but I remind myself of those early moments with my baby girl. How lost I was. How unprepared and overwhelmed I felt. And how my own baby made me see how incredible life is by pointing in the right direction.