Tag: New mom exhaustion

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

Week Seven: The Fog is Lifting… But I’m Still Wearing the Same Sweatpants

MiriamLeave a comment

7 weeks postpartum and deep in the trenches of new mom life — sleep struggles, emotional rollercoasters, and the raw reality of motherhood with a newborn.”

Seven weeks. That’s how long it’s been since a tiny human emerged from my body and flipped my entire universe upside down like a badly stacked Jenga tower. And while there are still crusty burp cloths on every surface and I haven’t seen the bottom of the laundry basket since birth, something feels… different this week. Slightly clearer. Slightly steadier. Like maybe I’m learning how to mother and human at the same time without completely combusting.

The New Routine (Kind Of)

We’re not on a schedule per se. It’s more like… a list of hopeful intentions. Baby naps when the moon is in Virgo, I eat when I remember I’m a living organism, and we bathe only when someone smells weird (usually me). But it’s *our* rhythm now. It’s messy and often derailed, but it’s starting to feel familiar, like a song I’m slowly learning the words to.

Also, I now know exactly how long I can go without washing my hair before it becomes a self-sustaining oil farm. The answer is six days. Seven if I wear a headband and avoid mirrors.

The Identity Crisis is Ongoing (But Softer Now)

Some days I still mourn the woman I used to be—the one who wore real bras and made plans on a whim. I miss her. She had time for hobbies and didn’t smell faintly of milk. But I’m also getting to know this new version of me. She’s exhausted and emotionally unstable but also kind of a badass. She can change a diaper with one hand and eat cold pizza with the other while whispering affirmations to herself like a sleep-deprived monk.

It’s weird to exist in this in-between: not who I was, not quite who I’m becoming. A human bridge, suspended between past and future, wearing maternity leggings and googling “why does my baby grunt like a goat.”

I Laughed Until I Cried. Then I Cried Until I Laughed.

This week, I laughed at a TikTok of a woman trying to pee while holding a baby and spilling coffee on her foot. It was eerily specific. Then I cried because I realized I *am* that woman. Then I laughed again because honestly, what else can you do?

Motherhood is weird like that. It makes your emotions feel like a clown car—one minute rage, the next minute bliss, the next minute crying because a onesie no longer fits and oh my god, they’re already growing up too fast.

Healing Is Not Linear (But It Is Real)

My body still aches in strange places. My core strength is… aspirational at best. But I walked up a hill this week without panting. I cooked something that didn’t involve a microwave. I even responded to a text on the same day I received it, which is practically Olympic-level performance at this point.

Mentally, I still wobble. I have moments where I think, “I can’t do this,” followed by moments of fierce pride where I think, “Holy crap, I am doing this.” Healing isn’t a straight line, but I can tell I’m further along than I was. And that’s enough.

If You’re Still in the Thick of It

If you’re reading this at 3 a.m., bouncing a baby who refuses to sleep unless they’re draped dramatically across your chest like a French scarf—hi. I see you. I am you. You’re doing better than you think.

This seventh week is still hard. Still full of question marks. But there’s also a flicker of light, a brief sense that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to get the hang of this. Or at least you’re better at winging it.

We’re still in it, mama. But we’re further in. And that counts for something.

With love, snacks, and dry shampoo, Miriam