Postpartum

Sam was born last week.

Lately, I’ve been wishing I were back at the hospital. At the hospital, my friends were there. People were there to take care of me. I felt cared for, cared about. And I liked that they were as worried about my health and Sam’s health as I was. Now that I’m home I’m questioning every little thing, my bleeding and cramping, his circumcision and sleep patterns. I need someone to tell me it’s all right, someone preferably with an RN or MD after their name.

At the hospital, I didn’t sleep much. That’s what happens when you have a baby at the same place you work. But I liked the stream of visitors that came through, recounting my birth story again and again. At home, I’m lonely. There is no one to talk to when Sam sleeps, and I know I should sleep too, and I do, but to be honest I don’t need as much sleep as a newborn baby does. So I play on my phone, stare into space. Or I watch HGTV and imagine my life was different, that I could be a stay at home mom looking for a bigger house for my family, or have enough money to buy a vacation home in the Dominican Republic, or have the guts to up and move to Paris because I had a great time there during my study-abroad semester.

I have made a cocoon for us, for me and Sam, in my bed. We eat here, we sleep here, we stress over how long he’s been awake here. My bed has long been my safe haven, it was during my pregnancy and even before. I feel like as long as I’m here, in my bed, we’ll be OK.

It’s when I have to get up. When I have to get CJ his cereal or drive him to school. (I left Sam for the first time today. For 30 minutes. It was freeing. But it was too soon.) When I have to answer the phone or the door. When I have to turn off HGTV. That’s when life is scarier. A new day brings a fresh start but I yearn for the evenings, when CJ is in bed and Sam and I are in my room, winding down, watching Property Brothers for the millionth time. Even in the wee hours of the morning, when it’s just me and him, I feel like I can do this. Like I can keep him safe and happy and healthy and fed. It’s when the other people in my family wake up that I’m not so sure. There are four of us now. And some of us aren’t adjusting to our additional person very well. There is still so much to figure out.

So I wish I was back there. In the hospital. Where Sam was fresh and new and someone brought me water when I asked and food when I asked and told me that we were both healthy and doing fine at least three times a day. I was safe there. Chris was there with me. We were safe and I wasn’t scared the way I am now, every night, about what tomorrow might bring.

For those of you wondering, yes, I’m taking my meds and yes, I’m sleeping—I get about two naps a day on top of my broken nighttime sleep. But it doesn’t mean it’s easier, it doesn’t mean I feel better about how things are going. Sometimes I feel OK, but mostly I’m scared, and I long for the time when things will get easier.