Tag: postpartum humor

Week Nine: I Think I Showered This Week (But I Can’t Be Sure)

MiriamLeave a comment

Week nine. We are officially deep into the fourth trimester—still bleeding (emotionally), still bonding (with caffeine), and still baffled by how many hours a baby can scream without taking a breath.

I think I might be getting better at this. Either that, or I’m losing my mind so completely that it feels like confidence. Either way, I’m brushing my teeth most days now, and that feels like a personal renaissance.

Baby is Thriving. I Am…Also Here.

The baby is now making eye contact, cooing, and recognizing my face. Which is adorable, but also means I can no longer sneak past them like a ninja and pretend I don’t exist when they cry. They know me. I’m their person. There is no escape.

Meanwhile, I looked in the mirror this week and said, “Who is she?” Not in a cute way. In a “I have bags under my eyes that have their own luggage tags” kind of way. But I also didn’t cry about it. That’s growth, right?

Adventures in Leaving the House (Again)

We attempted another public outing this week, which can only be described as a militarized operation with breast pads. Between diaper blowouts, unpredictable naps, and me forgetting half the diaper bag, it felt like a live-action simulation of a mom-themed survival show.

But we made it. We went outside. I wore pants that buttoned. I didn’t cry in the parking lot. Success all around.

My New Life Coach is a Sound Machine

I’ve become so reliant on the white noise machine that I now crave it even when the baby’s not sleeping. It soothes me. It’s my therapist. It’s the only one in the house who doesn’t have an opinion, a rash, or a weird relationship with pacifiers.

If someone unplugged it, I would probably dissolve into a fine maternal dust.

Am I Okay? A Flow Chart:

  • Did I eat? No → Not okay.
  • Did the baby nap? No → Definitely not okay.
  • Did I pee in peace? Yes → Actually, doing better than usual.
  • Did someone say “you’re doing great” today? No → I’ll be crying shortly.

So… mixed results. But I’m learning that “okay” is fluid. Some days it means I brushed my hair. Other days it means I just survived. And both count.

If You’re in Week Nine, Too

This week might feel long. Like long-long. Like “how are there still 3 hours until bedtime and we’ve been up since 4 a.m.” kind of long. But in the middle of that, there are tiny wins worth noticing:

  • You know your baby better than anyone else in the world now.
  • You’ve probably mastered at least one weird, unnecessary baby skill (like bouncing while squatting).
  • You’re still here. Still loving. Still trying. That’s no small thing.

So cheers to week nine. We may not have it all together, but we’ve stopped Googling “is this normal” every six minutes. Only every nine now. Progress.

With love, leftovers, and lukewarm coffee, Miriam

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

Day Six Postpartum: She Woke Up and Chose Snacks

MiriamLeave a comment

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. 💗🍼🥨