The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

The weeks and months that follow the birth of her baby is the most trying time a woman will ever experience in her life.  While the first time is undoubtedly more challenging in the world of newborn care, I’ve learned that having multiple children doesn’t necessarily equate to a smoother recovery, be it physical or mental.  Not only have I been blessed with three wonderful children, but I’ve also been blessed with three easy recoveries.  My labors were increasingly shorter with each baby, and my physical healing was increasingly easier each time.  The combination of modern medicine and a phenomenal team of trusted medical professionals are surely to thank for such experiences and I will forever be indebted to the amazing men and women who safely delivered my three babies into this world.  

Pregnancy, labor, delivery, recovery, motherhood.  They all have one thing in common: they’re impossible to prepare for.  One woman’s pregnancy will be a completely different experience than those of her friends, her mother, or even her own previous pregnancies.  A woman can read every book in print about bringing a person into the world but until she’s on that L & D floor, she has no idea what her labor will be like.  My labors and deliveries were each different, and I love that.  I love that I have very specific memories from the births of each of my children and I’ll be able to share these unique stories with each of them when they’re older.  My recoveries, as it turns out, were all different as well.  They too, however, all have one thing in common: bringing a new baby home is hard. 

Bringing Clara home was a moment I had waited for my whole life.  But after she met her doggie and settled in, I soon found myself sobbing on the bathroom floor because “I would never be able to swaddle her the way I’m supposed to.”  I spent my days sleep deprived and covered in her bodily fluids, questioning every little bump on her skin and every discoloration of the contents of her diaper.  I convinced myself she wasn’t getting enough milk, it’s impossible to measure a baby’s intake when they’re nursing, after all!  But oh, how I loved that little nugget!  I didn’t want to go back to work, and I struggled mightily when I did.  I didn’t have a position that allowed me to pump as much as I needed, and I quickly lost my supply as a result.  Devastated and convinced I had failed as a mother, I began supplementing with formula when she was six months old.  Immediately, the stigma of “breast is best” disappeared and the stress of being her only source of nourishment floated away.  It took me a long time to realize that I needed to make decisions with my baby’s physical health and my mental health in mind, and that both of those carry equal weight.  If I’m not caring for myself, it’s impossible to care for another. 

My labor and delivery with Eloise was easier than with Clara and the moment I introduced them to one another will always be one of my favorite memories.  To this day, we love watching the video of Clara refusing to hold her new baby sister, but proudly wearing her new “Big Sis” cape as she ran down the halls of the hospital.  It was everything I had always wanted.  But then why didn’t it feel that way?  The weeks following Eloise’s birth were exponentially more difficult.  Our jaundiced little girl needed constant feeding, and even after that, she wasn’t gaining weight.  Nursing, pumping, nursing, pumping.  All milk, all the time.  That was my life for the first two weeks of her life.  I struggled to entertain my two-year-old while also providing for my newborn.  I missed the signs, and as the weeks went on, I became disengaged from my children’s lives.  I loved my girls dearly, something for which I continue to be incredibly grateful, but I reached a point where I believed I was incapable of doing what was best for them.  I missed the signs, and I eventually convinced myself that those girls would be better off without me.  My postpartum depression crept in slowly.  I had been through this before, surely!  Remember when I cried about swaddling Clara? This is the same, right? 

No. It wasn’t the same. I had missed the signs. But it wasn’t too late. 

Not only am I blessed with three wonderful children, but I’m also blessed with an amazing support system.  That support system of my husband, family, therapists and medical team brought me out of the darkness and back into the light of my daughters’ lives.  Slowly, I enjoyed playing with them again.  I learned to accept that I will often feel guilty and overwhelmed.  I learned to name these feelings, and to truly understand that they are a natural part of raising children.  And slowly, I began to yearn for yet another little member of our family. 

I have worked hard in recent years to develop a strong emotional intelligence as a mother, a wife, a daughter, and an educator.  I try to recognize my triggers and I’ve developed coping skills accordingly.  I want to be vulnerable with my children so we can discuss the importance of accepting our emotions.  Parents make mistakes.  If you’re anything like me, you make them often.  And that’s okay.  But the important thing is to apologize to your children when you make those mistakes.  Just this morning, Eloise told me she needed to take a moment in her room before coming back out and apologizing for writing on her face with a marker.  I know my modeling is working with my children, and that is something of which I am fiercely proud.  And when we found out we were expecting our third baby, I vowed to listen intently to my feelings, especially in the first days and  weeks following his birth. 

In his first days, with the omicron variant just starting to rage, I found myself isolated in the hospital.  My deepest sadness was rooted in the fact that the girls had to meet their brother over FaceTime.  Rather than letting that break me down, I accepted the reality and I made the best of it.  We sent Daddy to care for his sisters and  Harrison and I embarked on a little Mommy-Son vacation from the real world.  He snoozed and I watched Christmas movies and Friends on syndication.  He drank colostrum and I ate Italian subs.  We snuggled.  Honestly, it was two-and-a-half days filled mostly with joy.  But all good things must come to an end and we were elated when we finally got to go home. (So elated that I admit to crying when I picked Clara up at preschool.  Can we blame that one on the hormones?) And though our little man was also jaundiced, I knew the pressure to provide him with all the milk all the time didn’t have to just be on me.  He had two bottles of formula on his fifth day of life and one more on his sixth day.  And you know what?  He gained weight.  He didn’t need phototherapy.  And I didn’t lose myself.  Not yet, anyway. 

And so, here we are.  Two months in as a family of five.  We have had Beautiful Days and we have had Terrible Days.  I have had Beautiful Days and I have had Terrible Days.  But mostly, we have had In-Between Days.  Days when the girls are both difficult and helpful.  Days when I feel overwhelming guilt but then work hard to accept it and move forward.  Days when Matthew is both working as dadding, juggling the constant battle of the WFH life so many of my readers have found themselves in lately.  Days when Harrison is both cranky and fabulously snuggly.  We have been stuck in our house due to Covid Winter, but the numbers are dropping and the days are lengthening.  Normalcy- whatever that means- is just around the corner.  And yes, bringing our baby boy home was hard, but it was also possible this time.  A possibility brought to us through modern medicine, an unwavering support system, and a wealth of experience of the good, the bad, and the ugly of motherhood.