Day Seven Postpartum: A Whole Week, Baby

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We made it. I cried. The baby cried. A banana got lost in my bed. This is motherhood.

Day Seven. Seven days since my body broke open and my heart doubled in size. Seven days since I became someone new: someone who leaks from five places, cries over paper towels, and somehow manages to function on 2 hours of sleep and a stale granola bar.

A week ago, I had a baby. And today, I still have that baby. Which means I’ve kept a human alive for seven days straight. That’s right — I’m officially qualified to be a wildlife handler, trauma nurse, and UN peacekeeper.

This has been the longest, fastest, most beautiful and horrifying week of my life. Let’s recap Day Seven before I cry again. (Spoiler: I will cry again.)

1. The Baby Has Opinions Now

He’s developed preferences. For example:

  • He likes warm milk and warm arms.
  • He dislikes literally everything else.

He now makes a high-pitched, tiny demon noise when I dare to move him an inch away from my chest. He prefers to sleep on me, while I’m slightly tilted, facing northeast, with white noise, and one sock on. Any deviation is a betrayal.

He is still adorable. Especially when he sneezes. (He sneezed six times today. I cried every time. Why? Hormones.)

2. My Milk Came In. So Did My Insanity.

Day Seven boobs are not for the weak. They are enormous, engorged, and sentient. I woke up feeling like someone filled my chest with bricks and rage. One breast was slightly bigger than the other and I whispered “traitor” to it under my breath.

I leaked through two shirts, three pads, and a fitted sheet. I tried to hand-express and squirted myself directly in the eye. A humbling moment.

I used to wear nice bras. Now I just tuck folded burp cloths into my shirt and call it fashion.

3. My Brain Is a Soggy Waffle

I put the peanut butter in the fridge and the milk in the cabinet. I spent five full minutes trying to remember what day of the week it was. (It’s *Day Seven,* that’s all I need to know.)

I forgot how to spell my last name. I texted someone “brb baby spaghetti” and have no idea what I meant. I started a sentence, paused to sneeze, and never remembered what I was saying.

But I somehow remembered to burp the baby, sanitize the pacifier, and sing “Twinkle Twinkle” seventeen times in a row. So, brain: not totally useless.

4. I Saw Myself in the Mirror. It Was… A Moment.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror this morning. I was wearing mesh underwear, a nursing bra, and a robe that I think was originally white but now looks like it survived a milk explosion. My hair was in a bun held together by a baby sock. I looked like a ghost who used to be hot.

And yet… I smiled. Because I know what that body did. I know what that face has been through. I know what that robe has wiped up. This is not my final form. But it’s a sacred one.

5. My Partner Brought Me Coffee, and I Wept

He walked in with a coffee and said, “I made it how you like it.”

I cried like he proposed all over again. I clutched the cup like it was holy. I drank half of it cold, one sip at a time, between diaper changes and feedings. Best coffee of my life.

We haven’t had a real conversation in days. We communicate in gestures and grunts. But there is love here. Quiet, exhausted love. Like a slow-burning candle in a blackout. It’s enough.

6. I’m Starting to Believe I Can Do This

There was a moment this afternoon. The baby was fed and swaddled. The dishes were sort of done. The sun was shining. And I sat down, took a breath, and realized:

I’m doing it.

Not perfectly. Not glamorously. But every day I show up. Every night I rock him. Every morning I say, “We got this, baby.”

That’s what being a mom is. Not flawless. Just faithful. Just full of love and milk and fierce, messy devotion.

Final Thoughts: One Week In

Day Seven feels like the edge of a cliff and the start of a sunrise. I’ve cried more in one week than I did all last year. I’ve laughed while crying. Cried while laughing. Fed a baby with one hand while Googling “how to swaddle without rage.”

I’ve loved deeper. Felt more fragile. Been more powerful. All in the same 24 hours.

To all the moms on Day Seven: You made it. And you’ll keep making it. Through the mess and the magic. Through the doubt and the wonder. You are incredible. Don’t let the crusty pajamas fool you — you’re made of steel and stardust. 💛🍼🌙

Day Six Postpartum: She Woke Up and Chose Snacks

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I’m still bleeding, still crying, still madly in love… but now I also have snacks in every room.

Welcome to Day Six. I’ve officially entered what I like to call the “semi-feral nesting” phase of postpartum. I no longer care what time it is, what I look like, or how many breast pads I’ve dropped under the couch — as long as the baby’s fed and I have one hand free for a granola bar, I’m thriving. Sort of.

I’m no longer surprised when I cry for no reason. Or when I cry for very good reasons. Or when I cry just because someone asked how I’m feeling. (Don’t. Just don’t.)

Let’s talk about Day Six — it’s a weird one. Not quite newborn-foggy, not yet functional. It’s like being halfway through a movie you didn’t choose but you’re deeply emotionally invested in.

1. I Made a Snack Nest

I’ve given up on traditional meals. I now eat like a raccoon trapped in a laundry room: cereal out of a coffee mug, cold toast, one lonely slice of cheese, a protein bar I found in my hospital bag, and some blueberries I dropped into my bra earlier that I’m now just calling garnish.

I have a full snack station on the nightstand, one on the bathroom sink, and one in the nursery glider. I might turn them into Yelp-verified food trucks if this whole “raising a human” thing doesn’t work out.

2. My Baby Is Smiling (Probably Gas, But Let Me Have This)

This morning, my baby made a face that looked like a smile. Sure, he was actively pooping, and yes, it could have been a digestive illusion — but it was beautiful. I sobbed like I’d just witnessed a double rainbow.

He’s also started making eye contact. Brief, wobbly eye contact like a tiny drunk uncle, but still. It feels like we’re starting to get to know each other.

I keep saying “hi” to him like we’re on our first awkward date. He blinks. I narrate everything I do in a high-pitched, sleep-deprived voice. We’re bonding. Or trauma-sharing. Either way, I’m obsessed.

3. The Tears Came in a New Flavor: Gratitude + Terror

I cried this morning because I’m so grateful. And so scared. And so tired. And so proud of myself.

I watched my baby sleep and thought: He’s mine. I made him. He’s here. And I’m doing it.

Then I thought: What if I mess it all up? What if I don’t do it right? What if he never sleeps without laying on top of me and I live like this forever and forget how to use both arms?

I went from angelic joy to existential dread in 0.3 seconds. A new record.

But I’m learning: it’s normal. It’s Day Six. Your brain is soup. Your hormones are renegade raccoons. Your love is deeper than ever, and your fear is just proof that you care.

4. My Body Is… Honestly, Kind of a Champion

I still have a belly, a line down the middle of it, and a belly button that looks slightly offended. I still move like a wounded sea lion when I get up too fast. But guess what? My body is feeding a human. My body made a heart. My body is holding the line. And I’m starting to love it for what it can do — not just what it looks like.

I even did a stretch today. One. It took everything in me. But I did it. Then I lay on the floor next to the baby and we just stared at each other like we were recovering from the same war. Because we were.

5. My Partner Is Learning the Sounds

We had a big moment today: my partner correctly identified the difference between the baby’s I’m Hungry cry and his My Sock Fell Off and I’m Betrayed cry. I have never loved him more.

He also folded laundry today, then stood in front of me and said, “I don’t know where any of these tiny clothes go.” Same, man. Nobody does. Just put them in a drawer and let the chaos win.

We’re learning together. We’re fumbling. But we’re in sync in a new, strange way. Less sexy, more survival-focused. Still beautiful.

6. I Smelled My Own Armpit and Wasn’t Horrified

Somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting freshness. I’ve lowered the bar and raised my self-respect. Showered? Amazing. Deodorant and a clean nursing bra? That’s the Met Gala. But even without all that, I’m showing up. Every moment. For every feed, every diaper, every cry, every cuddle.

And honestly, the baby doesn’t care if I smell like lavender or if I’ve been marinating in breast milk and Oreos. To him, I’m safety. I’m home.

Final Thoughts: Day Six Is Soft Power

I used to think power was loud. Fierce. Polished. Now I know it’s in the quiet things:

  • Feeding a baby at 3am when your eyes won’t stay open
  • Answering one more cry even when you just sat down
  • Choosing to love yourself in sweatpants with leaky boobs and stretch marks

Day Six isn’t glamorous. It’s crumb-filled and tear-streaked. But it’s full of courage. It’s full of heart. It’s where the softness becomes strength and the chaos becomes love.

To the Day Six mamas out there: you are doing the most important work. Even if no one sees it. Even if no one claps. Even if the only praise you get today is a silent moment when the baby finally falls asleep and sighs that little sigh of trust. That is everything. And so are you. 💗🍼🥨

Day Five Postpartum: I Brushed My Teeth, and Other Triumphs

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My standards are low. My love is high. My shirt is… questionable.

Day Five is a strange one. You’re starting to *almost* feel like a person again. You’ve learned how to hold a baby while peeing. You’ve accepted that your house will never be clean again. And you’ve developed the highly specific skill of sniffing your own armpits and deciding “eh, good enough.”

There’s something about Day Five that’s both grounding and completely surreal. I’m no longer surprised when I find poop on my arm. I’ve stopped crying over spilled milk (mostly because I’ve already cried all my body’s water supply out). And I’m starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, I’m getting the hang of this whole “keeping a human alive” thing.

1. I Brushed My Teeth Before Noon

I want to start with the highlight of my day: I brushed my teeth. Before noon. While holding the baby. I deserve a medal, a parade, or at the very least a warm croissant.

Did I also brush my hair? No. But I did attempt to fix the one piece sticking out sideways by wetting it with breastmilk. It’s a strategy I do *not* recommend, but it was there and it was warm.

2. My Wardrobe Is a Cry for Help

I’ve been wearing the same pair of maternity leggings for three days. They smell like lanolin and hope. I put on a shirt today that was technically clean but had a mysterious crusty spot I chose to ignore because, honestly, I’m out of energy and detergent.

I’ve now entered the postpartum style phase I call “tactical pajamas.” Everything must: be boob-accessible stretch in four directions not show milk stains (black is risky, gray is worse, tie-dye is ideal)

I used to care about clothes. Now I just care about whether this robe can double as a nursing cover, blanket, and tissue.

3. The Emotional Terrain: Still a Swamp

I’m emotionally unstable in the most impressive ways. This morning I cried because I found a sock small enough to fit my baby’s foot. Then I cried because the baby *kicked it off* and I couldn’t find it for three whole minutes.

I cried watching a TikTok of a dog greeting a toddler. I cried because my sandwich had pickles when I said no pickles. Then I cried because I actually like pickles now and don’t even know who I am anymore.

In conclusion: I am no longer in control of my own face. Tears just happen. My eyes are basically sprinkler systems now.

4. The Baby: My Whole World, My Tiny Dictator

He’s starting to recognize my voice. He quiets a little when I talk. He looks at me like I’m magic (probably because I am — I can make milk with my body, come on).

He still hates the bassinet. He’ll only sleep on me, which means I’m learning how to live horizontally while simultaneously sending emails with my pinky and Googling “how long can one person hold their pee.”

Every coo is a miracle. Every scream is… well, it’s a lot. But I’m adjusting to the rhythm: feed, burp, cry, poop, repeat. Like the world’s messiest looped song.

5. My Partner and I Made Eye Contact

Today, we looked at each other — really looked — and laughed. Not in the “haha life is funny” way but in the “we’re feral and exhausted and somehow still functioning” way.

We didn’t have a romantic moment. We didn’t sit down for a quiet dinner. But we handed the baby back and forth in silence like a little team of love-drunk zombies. And that’s something. Actually, that’s everything right now.

He also made me toast. I cried. (See section 3.)

6. My Body: A Work in Progress (With Leaks)

The bleeding is slowing. My boobs are still massive and randomly angry. But the afterpains are easing. I don’t wince every time I sit down anymore — just every other time.

I saw a stretch mark today and smiled. It looks like a little lightning bolt. Like my skin marked the moment I became something new — someone stronger, scarier, softer.

Still won’t be wearing jeans until 2026, though. Let’s be realistic.

Final Thoughts: Day Five Feels Like a Shaky Kind of Strength

Five days ago, I gave birth. I’m not sure how that’s even possible. Time moves differently now — some hours feel like years, some days disappear between feeding sessions and diaper explosions.

But this strange, sleepy, leaky life is starting to feel like mine. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But it’s real. It’s powerful. It’s love at its messiest.

I’m doing it. Not perfectly. Not quietly. But wholeheartedly.

To the moms out there on Day Five: You’re not failing. You’re adapting. You’re learning your baby and yourself all at once. And that’s a freaking miracle. 💪🍼🥴

Day Four Postpartum: I’ve Become One with the Couch

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My baby’s asleep on my chest. I have to pee. Guess I live here now.

Day Four. We’re deep in it now.

By this point, I’ve forgotten what day of the week it is, what my feet look like, and when I last used a fork. Time is an illusion. My baby is my boss. I have 47 half-drunk cups of water around the house, and I now refer to my breast pump as “Linda.”

I’m somewhere between surviving and thriving — I call it surthriving — and today brought a delightful mix of tiny triumphs, weird body stuff, and the growing suspicion that I might never be alone again for the next 18 years.

1. The Baby Is Glued to Me

Today, my baby decided the only acceptable place to nap was directly on my chest, preferably with a fist full of my bra strap. I tried transferring him to his bassinet and he immediately screamed like I was handing him off to the devil.

So I just… sat there. For three hours. I had to pee. I was hungry. I could hear my phone buzzing with unread texts. Didn’t matter. The baby was asleep and I wasn’t about to ruin the one silent moment we’d had all morning.

I accepted my fate. I became one with the couch. I used a granola bar wrapper as a napkin. I stared into the middle distance and whispered, “This is my life now.”

2. Milk Brain Is Real

I opened the fridge looking for my phone. I found it an hour later in the diaper drawer.

I put nipple cream on my lips and lip balm on my nipples.

I forgot my own zip code when trying to place an online order for nursing pads.

My brain is a beautiful place. A foggy, hormonal, leaky swamp of a place, but beautiful nonetheless.

3. Crying? Still a Thing!

I cried today because I looked at a photo of myself pregnant and thought, “She had no idea.”

I cried because my baby made a weird little coo noise that sounded like he said “hi.”

I cried because my partner brought me a sandwich without asking, and I hadn’t even told him I was hungry. That sandwich meant more to me than our wedding vows.

I also cried because my baby pooped directly into my hand. But that was more of a laughing-while-crying situation. Growth?

4. My Body: She’s Trying Her Best

I still look six months pregnant. I still shuffle when I walk. I still sit down with the care and speed of a 97-year-old woman who just ran a marathon.

But! I showered today. I shaved exactly one leg. I put on clean-ish leggings. I even wore deodorant that wasn’t from 2022. We celebrate the wins here, okay?

Also, I’m officially an expert in sneezing while clenching every pelvic muscle in my body. It’s an Olympic sport and I would medal.

5. My Partner: Slowly Learning the Art of Not Breathing Loudly

Today, he asked, “Do you want to watch something together later?”

I looked at him with the weary eyes of a woman who hasn’t watched a single TV show without falling asleep during the opening credits in four days.

“Sure,” I said. “If I’m still conscious.”

We didn’t watch anything. But he rubbed my feet while I nursed and didn’t ask a single follow-up question when I said I was overwhelmed because the burp cloths don’t all match. That’s love now. Burp cloth compatibility. Foot rubs. Sandwiches with extra pickles.

6. The Baby: My Tiny, Sassy Roommate

He makes so many faces now. One of them looks like a tiny judge about to declare me guilty of insufficient boob supply. One is a pure, sleepy bliss face that makes me want to cry and freeze time forever.

He’s figured out that nighttime means party time. He naps all day like a little prince, and then around 9 PM he opens his eyes like, “Wassup fam, let’s rage.”

I sing to him. He poops. I whisper sweet nothings. He throws up in my cleavage. I call it bonding.

Final Thoughts: Day Four Is Soft and Sharp at the Same Time

Four days ago, I gave birth. I was one person then. I’m a totally new one now.

Every hour, I become more of this mother version of me — raw, weepy, powerful, hilarious, exhausted, in love.

I know I’m still healing. I know I’ll probably cry again in 12 minutes. I know I’ll wonder if I’m doing any of this right. But I also know this:

  • I am my baby’s favorite place in the world.
  • I can feed and soothe and swaddle like a boss.
  • I am strong — like, *ridiculously* strong — even if my pants are unbuttoned and I haven’t peed alone in four days.

To the Day Four moms out there: You’re in it now. It’s tender and tough and totally insane. But you’ve got this. Take a deep breath. And maybe a nap. If the baby lets you. 💤🍼💪😭

Day Three Postpartum: My Nipple, My Sanity, and Other Missing Persons Reports

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In which I cry at a dish towel, declare war on my partner’s breathing, and consider naming the baby “Colic.”

They don’t tell you this in the hospital, but Day Three postpartum is when the wheels start to fall off the tiny, adorable, hormone-fueled wagon.

On the third day, the Lord made light. On my third day postpartum, I made a mental note to Google “Can you die from sleep deprivation?” and “How to fake your own disappearance without hurting the baby’s feelings.”

Let’s recap, shall we?

1. The Milk Has Officially Taken Over

Remember the boobs from Day Two? Yeah, they’ve evolved. We are now in Phase Two of Operation: Cow Udder. I am a walking dairy plant. I leak when I laugh. I leak when I think about leaking. I leak when I see a picture of another baby on Instagram.

I tried to breastfeed in a side-lying position, but instead, I nearly suffocated my child with my left boob. I am now exclusively feeding him in positions that look like modern interpretive dance. He’s thriving. I’m… damp.

The pump is my new best friend. We spend more time together than I do with my partner. At one point, I caught myself making eye contact with the pump and whispering, “You get me.”

2. Hormonal Whiplash: A Tragedy in 6 Acts

I woke up crying. No reason. Just vibes. Then I looked at my baby and smiled through my tears because he looked like a perfect little potato. Then I cried harder because potatoes don’t stay small forever.

By noon, I had rage-sobbed because my partner left the dish towel slightly damp. Was he trying to ruin my life? Was he actively participating in a psychological experiment where the variable is my emotional fragility?

Later, I watched a video of a dog meeting a baby goat. I wept so hard I had to remove my nursing pads and just let nature take its course. Milk and tears: the ultimate postpartum cocktail.

3. My Partner: A Cautionary Tale

He asked if he could “just run out for a quick haircut.”

Bold of him to assume I wouldn’t change the locks while he was gone.

He also asked if I needed “anything else” while he was out. I told him: “A new personality, 16 hours of sleep, a pelvic floor transplant, and one (1) baby who doesn’t treat my chest like an all-you-can-eat buffet open 24/7.”

He returned with a sandwich. I forgave him immediately.

We did make up, eventually. We took turns holding the baby while the other one showered, blinked, or cried into a towel. Romantic.

4. The Baby: Still Cute, Still Loud

My baby is still adorable. He smells like hope and warm bread. He also screams like a siren when his pacifier falls out, which it does every 0.3 seconds. He’s learned to do this thing where he smiles in his sleep. I’m not sure if it’s gas or the face of God — either way, I cried again.

He’s cluster feeding. I had to look that term up. It’s basically when your baby treats your body like an all-night buffet and orders the sampler platter. Every. Forty. Minutes.

I haven’t worn a bra since we got home. My right shoulder is permanently damp. I once wore matching socks. That version of me is gone now. May she rest.

5. The Mirror: A Haunted House Experience

I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and gasped. I look like a villainess who fell into a vat of hormones. There are dark circles under my eyes, cracked lips, and a piece of dried breast milk in my hair. I haven’t brushed it. I’m afraid it’s holding me together.

My belly is soft. My hips ache. I waddle slightly. I am still bleeding. I am, somehow, still bleeding. Where is it all coming from?!

And yet… I also felt a strange tenderness for my body today. It created life. It’s recovering from a battle I didn’t fully comprehend until now. It’s holding the line — even if that line is currently drawn in lanolin cream and stretch marks.

6. The Late-Night Shift: Where Dreams Go to Die

We were up from 1:00 AM to 4:47 AM. We tried everything: rocking, bouncing, shushing, white noise, skin-to-skin, actual prayer. Nothing worked until I gave up and laid him on my chest, and he finally dozed off, breathing in tiny sighs like he’d been fighting a war we couldn’t see.

I didn’t sleep. I just stared at him. I kissed his head and silently begged the universe to protect him forever. Then he farted on me. Perfect moment, ruined. Classic baby.

Final Thoughts: Day Three is Wild, Unfair, and Weirdly Magical

I’m still sore. I’m still scared. I’m still Googling weird things like “how to tell if a baby hates you” and “how many hours of sleep before hallucinations start.”

But I’m also still here. Still loving this tiny human more than I ever thought possible. Still laughing at the absurdity. Still tearing up when he wraps his fingers around mine like I’m the entire universe to him.

Day Three postpartum is not for the faint of heart. It’s for the warriors. The milk-stained. The wide-eyed. The ones who whisper “I love you” at 3:00 AM while crying into a burp cloth.

We’re out here. We’re surviving. We’re thriving, in a feral kind of way.

To all the Day Three moms out there: You are the definition of power. You’re doing better than you think. And yes, you absolutely deserve that second cookie. And the third. 🍼🔥💪😭

Day Two Postpartum: Tears, Tatas, and Triage

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My body is broken. My baby is adorable. My nipples are filing a restraining order.

Day Two hits differently. On Day One, you’re floating on adrenaline, hospital jello, and the joy of finally not being pregnant. But Day Two? Oh, sweet reader. That’s when the milk comes in, the tears come out, and your baby decides that sleep is for the weak.

I had this wild idea that things would get easier each day. Instead, Day Two arrived like a raccoon in my kitchen — chaotic, unsettling, and slightly damp.

1. The Boobs. Oh God, the Boobs.

Remember when I prayed for my milk to come in? Yeah. Well. Be careful what you wish for.

My breasts are now enormous, rock-hard, and have taken on personalities of their own. I named them: Mount Lactation and Lake Leaky. They’re angry. They’re full. And they leak at will — when the baby cries, when I sneeze, and once, I swear, when someone said the word “baby” on a commercial.

I tried to pump but somehow managed to spray milk across the room like an unhinged dairy sprinkler. The baby stared at me like he regretted choosing me as his mom. Same, buddy. Same.

2. Baby Blues: A Pop-Up Sadness Event

At one point, I sat on the couch, stared into space, and sobbed uncontrollably. Was I sad? Not exactly. Was I happy? Also no. Was I overwhelmed, exhausted, leaking from all holes, and eating saltines for dinner while holding a screaming bundle of need?

Yes. Deeply, yes.

The baby blues are real. They sneak in like a sad violin background track in a romantic drama, except instead of kissing in the rain, you’re crying because you saw a tiny sock and remembered how fleeting life is.

3. Visitors: Yes I Love You, Now Please Leave

A relative stopped by to “help.” She brought a onesie (cute), took 97 flash photos (why?), and offered this gem: “Sleep when the baby sleeps!” I nearly threw a burp cloth at her.

If you are not bringing food, a professional massage, or the ability to lactate — please FaceTime me instead.

4. The Smells

Everything smells. My house smells like milk, lanolin cream, and fear. I haven’t showered since labor. My armpits smell like regret. The baby’s head, however, smells like heaven with a hint of vanilla croissant. I would bottle it if I could.

I stood in the bathroom with a peri bottle and stared at my own reflection like a villain in a horror movie who just realized they’ve become the monster.

5. Sleeping Beauty (Just Kidding, She’s Wide Awake)

My newborn has decided that nighttime is the perfect time to scream like she’s been wronged by the entire universe. I tried all the tricks: swaddle, pacifier, white noise, interpretive dance. Nothing worked.

Eventually, we both gave up and just cried together while watching reruns of Friends. She prefers Chandler. I prefer silence.

Final Thoughts

Day Two postpartum is like boot camp for your soul. It’s beautiful and brutal. You cry because the baby is cute. You cry because your body hurts. You cry because you’re crying and don’t know why you’re crying.

But somehow, you survive. You feed the baby. You change the baby. You google “how long can a human survive on zero sleep.” And then you kiss that tiny, milk-drunk face and realize: you’d do it all again tomorrow.

Just maybe after a nap. Or a full-body massage. Or a new pair of nipples.

To the moms in the trenches on Day Two: You are a warrior. A sweaty, swollen, slightly unhinged warrior. Keep going. And don’t forget to eat something that isn’t toast crust. 🍼💪😅😭

Day One Postpartum: Cry-Laughing Through the Chaos

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My milk came in. So did the tears. And possibly a ghost.

Day One Postpartum: Cry-Laughing Through the Chaos

My milk came in. So did the tears. And possibly a ghost.

Welcome to Day One Postpartum, otherwise known as The Day the Nurses Leave and You Realize You’re the Nurse Now. I had read about the magical moment when you finally get to bring your baby home — how the air sparkles, the birds chirp, and you and your partner stare lovingly into each other’s eyes as you co-parent in perfect harmony.

Ha. Lies. All lies.

Let me walk you through my first 24 hours as a freshly born mother.

1. Leaving the Hospital: A Slow Descent into Madness

The nurse wheeled me to the car like I was the queen of England… except I was wearing a maxi pad the size of a throw pillow and sitting on an inflatable donut. My baby was buckled so tightly into the car seat he looked like a tiny astronaut about to be launched into space. I wept the whole ride home because hormones, and because I was afraid of potholes.

My husband tried to make light conversation on the drive. I told him gently (read: barked like a feral raccoon) to stop talking.

2. The Arrival Home: Is This Place Always This Loud?

Home used to feel so peaceful. Now, it was suspiciously bright, weirdly dusty, and everything smelled like breast pads and fear. The baby, sweet angel that he is, immediately pooped through his onesie and onto me. We hadn’t even made it past the living room.

I tried to breastfeed. He latched! Then unlatched! Then latched again! Then… bit me with gums I swear were forged in hell. I screamed, he screamed, my nipples retracted into another dimension.

3. The Emotional Rollercoaster: Cry Me a Milk River

  • 6:42 PM – I cried because I was so happy.
  • 6:47 PM – I cried because I was so tired.
  • 6:51 PM – I cried because I spilled my water and couldn’t reach it.
  • 6:53 PM – I laughed at how ridiculous I was.
  • 6:54 PM – I cried again because what even is me anymore?

The emotional range of a Shakespearean actress — but in mesh underwear and with leaky boobs.

4. Partner Check-In: Can He Read My Mind Yet?

Bless his soul, my partner offered to “take a shift,” not realizing babies don’t work in shifts. I asked him to grab the diaper cream and he brought me hemorrhoid ointment. I said “thanks” in a tone that could curdle milk.

We argued about how to swaddle. The baby cried. I cried. He Googled “how to not make wife cry.” Google did not help him.

5. My Body: Who Dis?

Every part of my body felt like it had just returned from battle. My belly was soft and squishy, my boobs had become sentient and were threatening to secede, and I was convinced my pelvic floor had packed a suitcase and left in the night.

At one point, I sneezed and apologized to the universe.

6. The Midnight Hour: Where’s My Receipt for This Baby?

At 2:00 AM, the baby woke up screaming. I did everything I could: fed him, burped him, rocked him, whispered inspirational quotes. Nothing worked.

In that moment, I swear I saw my soul leave my body and hover over the bassinet, asking, “Can we tap out now?”

Then suddenly… silence. He fell asleep in my arms. A little gummy mouth hanging open. A sigh so soft it broke me.

Final Thoughts:

Day One postpartum is a beautiful disaster — like a wedding cake dropped in slow motion. It’s raw, painful, funny, maddening, and sweeter than you can explain to anyone who hasn’t been there.

I’ve never laughed and cried so hard in the same day.
I’ve never felt so broken and so whole at the same time.
I’ve never loved anything more — not even my own ability to sleep through the night. RIP.

And tomorrow? We do it again.

With more coffee.
And possibly a diaper on backward.
(Mine, not his.)

To all the new mamas out there on Day One: you’re doing it. You’re not alone. And yes, those are your boobs leaking through your shirt. Own it. 🍼💪💔😂