u s e y o u r h a n d s

I think the storm is finally over.

I’ve been depressed before, had trying times before. But nothing of what I’ve read, experienced or observed, prepared me for the crushing, suffocating disaster that was the first three months of being a mother.

Nothing of what I’ve hoped for, longed for prepared me for the unmitigated joy of that next three months. I’m ecstatic and it’s both energizing and calming. I am so surprised.

And I am home.

The other day, I was sitting in the therapist’s office. I’d arrived thinking I had a noon appointment when I really had a 1 pm slot. All I wanted to do was read the year-old copy of Real Simple in the rack, but I had to feed Gus. As I held the bottle to his mouth, I watched as the breastmilk swelled at the corners. It threatened to spill out and make his chin and neck sticky, his shirt wet. I don’t know how many minutes ticked by as I willed that milk to stay in his mouth and him to stay clean.

I wish that I could live through this experience with more grace, with more acceptance. But everything, my expectations, my baby, my brain, have conspired against me to make this the toughest, least enjoyable time of my life. Everything hurts. Nothing is going well.

By the time we got into her office, Gus had peed on his socks and milk soaked the hand-me-down shirt he wore. Another thing that hadn’t gone right in a day completely filled with wrong.