Tag: mom life unfiltered

Week Eight: Two Months In and I’m Still Googling “Is This Normal?”

MiriamLeave a comment

We made it to two months. Eight weeks. Fifty-six days. Approximately 4,872 diapers. I’ve now lived an entire season of life in nursing bras and perpetual low-grade panic. And while there’s still a mountain of laundry trying to emotionally manipulate me, something has shifted. The fog hasn’t fully lifted, but now there are moments where I can see through it—and sometimes, I even laugh in it.

Welcome to the “Wait, I Think I’ve Done This Before” Phase

Things are starting to repeat. Feedings feel familiar. I can now swaddle without watching a YouTube tutorial every time. I’ve developed an internal clock that wakes me up 30 seconds before the baby does, which is either superhuman or deeply tragic. It’s hard to say.

I now know which cry means “feed me,” which cry means “change me,” and which cry means “I’m just doing this for sport.” Progress.

I Cried Because a Sock Was Missing

Hormones still rule the kingdom. This week I cried—sobbed—because I couldn’t find the matching sock to a tiny, unnecessary pair of baby booties. Then I cried harder because I realized how little it mattered. Then I laughed because… it’s socks. For feet that don’t walk. What are we doing?

And yet, that sock felt symbolic. Like if I could just find the match, maybe I could match myself back together too. (I didn’t. It’s gone. Probably in the same place as my short-term memory and pelvic floor.)

Baby Smiles Are a Cult and I’ve Been Indoctrinated

This week, the baby smiled at me. Really smiled. Not the gassy smirk or the “I’m about to poop” squint—but a genuine, gummy, delighted grin. And I lost my mind. I would burn down a small village for that smile now. It’s like crack, but legal and wholesome.

I spent an hour making ridiculous faces and sounds just to get another one. I sang a song that rhymed “pajamas” with “llamas” and didn’t even hate myself for it. That’s the magic of week eight—you’re still exhausted, still confused, but those tiny moments of joy start shining brighter than the chaos.

My Brain: Still Offline

I put my phone in the fridge this week. That’s it. That’s the story.

Also, I referred to my own name in the third person, forgot my password to life, and wrote a grocery list that only said “milk.” (Not even specifying whose milk. Cow? Oat? Me?)

Mental clarity is… not back yet. But at least I now know it left.

What I’m Still Avoiding

  • Emails.
  • Returning that text from my aunt who just wants “another photo.”
  • Looking at my belly in the mirror for longer than two seconds.
  • Putting away the maternity clothes. I’m still wearing them, thank you very much.

Every time I see a pair of jeans with a zipper, my soul winces. Why are we pretending zippers are okay? This is a sweatpants household now.

If You’re Somewhere Between Tired and Triumphant

Week eight feels like standing in the middle of a room that’s still a mess but at least you know where the door is. You’re not thriving, exactly—but you’re not drowning either. You’re floating. Bobbing. Sometimes clinging to a pacifier as a flotation device.

And you know what? That’s enough.

If you’re in this week with me—tired, tearful, giggling over baby hiccups and crying over baby socks—I’m proud of you. You’re doing something impossibly hard, and somehow still managing to love through it.

Here’s to us. The barely-showered, deeply-feeling, emotionally-unhinged-but-still-showing-up moms.

With love, snacks, and unmatched socks, Miriam

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

MiriamLeave a comment

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. 💪🍼🥴