Tag: motherhood unfiltered

Week Six: Is This My Comeback or Just a Different Flavor of Chaos?

MiriamLeave a comment

This week marked the mystical milestone of six weeks postpartum—the point when, according to every cheerful pamphlet and well-meaning nurse, I was supposed to be “cleared” for normal life. I’m not sure what “normal” is anymore. I only know that my body and brain feel about as stable as a Jenga tower built by a caffeinated toddler.

At my six-week check-up, the doctor smiled and said, “Everything looks great!” while I tried to figure out if she was referring to my uterus or the fact that I was wearing clean leggings for once. She handed me a brochure about birth control options as though I hadn’t just emerged from a six-week boot camp of cracked nipples and existential dread. Birth control feels about as relevant to me as a vacation to Mars right now.

The (Alleged) Return to Normal Activities

This was the week I attempted to walk around the block with the baby in a carrier. I imagined it would look like one of those serene Instagram reels—peaceful mom, sleepy baby, golden hour lighting. In reality, I was sweating through my shirt within five minutes, my baby was screaming like a siren, and a neighbor I barely know shouted from her porch, “You look tired!” No shit, Debra. No shit.

Once I finally made it home, I realized I had a burp cloth draped over my shoulder like an accidental accessory. I sat on the couch, out of breath, trying to figure out when basic tasks became feats of strength and endurance. My body feels both foreign and familiar—like I’ve been gifted a rental vehicle I’m still learning to drive.

Intimacy (Spoiler: Not Happening)

The doctor also announced I was “cleared” for intimacy. I tried to imagine what that would even look like. My brain short-circuited. For the past six weeks, my body has been purely functional—a milk machine, a rocking chair, a source of comfort. The thought of anything remotely sensual just feels…unfathomable. I know someday it will feel natural again, but right now, it feels about as likely as winning the lottery while riding a unicycle.

Hormones Are Still Doing Their Thing

My hormones have not gotten the memo that it’s been six weeks. They are still throwing nightly raves. At 2 a.m., I find myself crying because I’m convinced I’m doing everything wrong. By 2:30 a.m., I’m crying because my baby’s face is so sweet it hurts my heart. Then by 3 a.m., I’m crying because I miss my old life, and then at 3:05 a.m., I feel guilty for missing it. It’s like being a guest in a haunted house of feelings—every door I open has another emotional jump scare.

Flashes of Something Like Myself

But in between the chaos, there are little moments—tiny glimpses—where I feel like a person again. I drank a hot cup of coffee this week, without reheating it three times. I showered and actually used conditioner. I laughed, a real belly laugh, over something stupid my partner said. These ordinary things feel like small miracles. They are proof that even though the fog hasn’t lifted, there are cracks where the light shines through.

I tried to fold the laundry, thinking it would make me feel accomplished. Instead, I ended up sitting in a pile of clothes, holding a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans that look like they belong to another woman. Nothing fits the same—physically or emotionally. My body is different. My mind is different. My marriage is different. Everything feels cracked open, raw, and unsteady.

The Myth of “Bouncing Back”

This week, I realized that “bouncing back” is a cruel myth. You don’t bounce. You don’t snap back. You crawl forward, sometimes in circles, sometimes with tears and a leaky boob. And if you’re lucky, you find a way to love this new version of yourself—not because she’s better or worse, but because she’s yours.

If you’re here, in week six, wondering why you don’t feel normal yet—please know you’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re just healing, in your own time and your own way.

If You’re Here Too

If you’re reading this with a baby on your chest and crumbs in your hair, wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again—I see you. I am you. And though this week was exhausting and strange and overwhelming, it was also a week of tiny victories and stubborn hope.

Week six is messy. It’s disorienting. But it’s also proof you’ve survived six whole weeks of something no one can truly prepare you for. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.

With love and solidarity, Miriam

Week Two Postpartum: The Milk Has Settled, But I Have Not

MiriamLeave a comment

The bleeding continues. So do the tears. And the baby’s side-eye is getting stronger.

I’m officially two weeks postpartum. That’s 14 days of feeding a baby, bleeding profusely, questioning my life choices, and Googling things like “can a newborn smell fear?”

People say the second week is when you start finding your rhythm. And while I wouldn’t say I’ve found a rhythm, I have definitely found the ability to change a diaper with one hand and cry while doing it.

Let’s break down this beautifully messy week, shall we?

1. The Boobs Have Entered Their Diva Era

The milk supply has “regulated,” which I assume is code for: still leaking constantly, but now in a more emotionally manipulative way.

One breast always fills faster. The other is the lazy coworker doing the bare minimum. I’ve developed a personal vendetta against my own chest.

I still haven’t figured out how to nurse in public without exposing 90% of my torso and one stretch-marked side roll. So I mostly stay home. Shirtless. Weeping. Like a hormonal hermit crab.

2. Emotionally Speaking, I’m a Tornado in a Bathrobe

I cried this week because:

  • The baby smiled (gas? love? who knows?)
  • I dropped a cracker and was too tired to pick it up
  • I watched a TikTok where a cat hugged a baby
  • I missed my old self, then felt guilty for missing her

Some moments I feel like the strongest woman alive. Other moments I feel like a damp sock. Postpartum is truly just a game of emotional roulette, where every spin lands on “surprise crying.”

3. My Relationship Is Now 90% Logistics

My partner and I have exchanged 7,000 words this week. 6,942 of those words were “Did you grab the burp cloth?”

We high-five after good burps. We nod solemnly during poop blowouts. We haven’t made eye contact since the baby was born, but we pass each other snacks like loving coworkers in a very dysfunctional startup.

Intimacy? Not even on the horizon. But he did bring me water in the middle of a cluster feed, and honestly, that’s hotter than flowers right now.

4. My Baby Is a Tiny Dictator

This child now rules my household with an iron fist wrapped in a muslin swaddle.

He hates being put down. He demands 24/7 boob access. He naps only when the dishwasher is running, a siren is wailing, and I’m sitting perfectly still with no snacks within reach.

He also smells like heaven, clutches my finger like I’m his whole world, and once sneezed so dramatically I almost called 911. So… I forgive him.

5. What Even Is Time Anymore?

It’s either 3am or 3pm. I don’t know. The days are long and the nights are a Netflix mini-series of me Googling “is this normal?” while the baby breastfeeds for the 40th time.

Showers are scheduled like international travel. My phone is filled with blurry baby photos and half-written text replies that start with “sorry just seeing this!”

Some days I feel like I’m drowning. Other days, I float. Every day, I survive. And that counts.

Final Thoughts: Week Two in the Trenches

Week two postpartum is when the dust starts to settle — just enough for you to realize you’re still standing in the middle of a storm.

Your body is still healing. Your baby is still learning how to be alive. And you? You’re doing the impossible: showing up, every minute, every hour, with cracked nipples, swollen emotions, and a love so fierce it could knock you off your feet.

You’re not failing. You’re just becoming. Becoming a mother. Becoming yourself again, only different. Stronger. Wilder. Softer. More real than ever.

To all the mamas in Week Two: You’ve got this. You’re doing better than you think. And if no one’s told you today — your hair looks kind of amazing in that messy bun, and yes, that spit-up stain does make you look edgy.

See you next week. Probably in pajamas. Definitely holding coffee. ☕🍼💛

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

MiriamLeave a comment

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. 🍼🔥💪😭