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I’m big. I’m round and in pain.

He’s almost a week late when I finally “pop”.

I’m a sleep-deprived mule running on gluttony fueled by nursing. My breasts are too big and constantly fluctuate to the tune of newborn cries. I’m a slave to cluster feeding and countdown to the witching hour.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

This tiny being is my whole world and I’ll end anything that tries to harm it.

But I’m crying in the bathroom because I’m his everything.

My uterus is empty and shrunken and I miss the flips and flops and kicks. Miss that warm space inside of me that’s suddenly gone. Instead, I was sliced open and baby pulled from me and the morphine barely worked while the epidural numbed me when it was finally corrected and I wasn’t vomiting from pain and the rush of pitocin.

Everything makes me cry.

I’m trying. I don’t understand, but the baby poops every time he nurses. The diaper genie is full, our noses nose blind to the smell of excrement. I don’t know why he’s crying, crying, crying.

I am with him every day, every second, every minute, every hour. I blink and I miss him growing so minutely. I’m slowly getting the hang of it, but every time I do he learns something else and I have to adapt.

There’s a first for everything: first smile, babbles, roll over, crawling, steps, words. The first time he fell off the bed. I’m a bad mom. I’m a bad mom. I’m a horrible mother. Every mistake I make no matter how small I think God should smite me.

His first word was Dada. But Daddy’s over a thousand miles away. We see him on a screen every day. He left when you were three months old and came back to a different child. But we resume and it’s like he never left. He said you smell like pee and you still only have eyes for me. So, it hurts for him but now look, you grab his hand and want him to pick you up.

I bear the mental load. I’m drowning.

Therapy and reconstruing thoughts. 10mg citalopram.

I’m drowning.

I’m

drowning.

But I have to keep going because Daddy has to make the money because Mommy has never made enough. And let’s be real, probably never will.

But I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing either, so don’t terrorize me with your weaponized incompetence.

Sometimes I hate being a mom.

I miss my old life. I miss my time spent alone. I miss long music sessions while typing away on my laptop or hours upon hours stitching away to dramas. Or laying in bed just because.

But I don’t miss my old self, because the me now is brave.

Some days at home as a full-time mother it’s hard. It’s not for the faint at heart. It’s not for those who are weak mentally. Some days are calm, some are frustrating and maddening and I want to tear my hair out of my head, but when I see my son sleeping soundly all the frustrations leave. There’s something about his little face at rest that maximizes the look of peace and reminds me that it’s okay. Despite having him fawning over me 24/7, I realize that I can do it again. We can make it another day.

*

Microplastics run through our veins and social media mom influencers tell us what’s the right or wrong way to raise our kids. Co-sleeping, no bed sharing or your baby will die, baby-led weaning, all-natural and organic fruits only, no sugar, no juice, no pouches. Gentle parenting, Montessori, all wooden toys, sad beige babies, no screen time before this age.

This and that.

They say they’re right and that you’re doing it wrong in the comments, while your parents and in-laws shove their parenting input down our throats, vomiting a spiel about discipline and spanking. They don’t like it when we rebel and stand up for ourselves. Everyone’s a fucking parenting expert suddenly. I refuse, Mom, I’ve told you already.

Millennial parenting. There’s too much fucking information being processed at all times. I’ll raise my kid my own way, thank you very much- so fuck your opinion. I’m just desperately trying my best.

I’m just trying my best.

But my mind races and I have so much to do. I clean up my house every day for a toddler who destroys it by the end of it. I feel helpless, hopeless…

And then job applications. Fuck this stupid job world. I’m a master of multitasking. I do data entry, I’m an appointment setter, a planner, a cook, a cleaner, a party planner, a graphic designer, baker, alterations specailist and I weave the web of making sure the cog turns the wheel and I don’t get a thanks. Instead, breakfast, lunch and dinner end up on the floor.

I need and want someone to tell me that I’m doing okay. Someone to say you got this mama, no matter how cringe it is.

So don’t look at me while I struggle to handle my tantrum throwing toddler while in the store. If you can’t help me don’t say a word. I’m trying. I really am.

Because I’m swiping left and right on Peanut and none of these moms can hold a decent conversation, it’s frustrating. It’s lonely and at story time we look at each other in hesitance, eyes wanting to connect, but we’re too busy running after our own kids.

And I’m tired. You’re tired. My husband is tired. We’re all tired. I haven’t gotten a full night of sleep since the third-trimester insomnia kicked in. But I can’t sleep when I’m away from my baby, so I’ll never get a full night of sleep again huh.

I’m an overstimulated touched-out mess. Sorry babe, not tonight. My breasts look sad and sag and my stomach looks equally as sad. I don’t feel sexy. I should’ve loved the girl I was before it all went downhill, but I can fit back into my Fashionnova size three jeans again. Why did I get rid of most of my clothes three months postpartum?

My toddler is a boob-crazy, yoga fanatic and gymnast. He kneads my stomach fat with tiny hands while latched. I’m struggling to wean but I don’t know how. “He’s too big to be breastfeeding,” but they’ve been against it since six months.

But the time is going too fast. The little newborn, infant with fat cheeks and thick thighs that began walking at 9.5 months is now a slimmed down and curly-haired feisty toddler that constantly chants “mama, mommy, mom” and no matter how frustrating it gets his smile and hugs keep me going and his peaceful sleeping face. Because there’s no more kick counts, no more worry about SIDS, no- it’s transitioned to making sure he’s still breathing after a while, while hoping he'll sleep just a little longer.

And that’s all that matters, is being able to hold him in my arms every day.

And we want another one.

*

Then I lost a baby I only found out I was pregnant with the day before.

Nonviable pregnancy.

Pain, pain oh God the pain and the bleeding. But I doubt myself.

Ambulance ride.

Dilation and curettage. Laparoscopy. Removing right fallopian tube. Anesthesia. One-hour procedure.

"I’m sorry for your loss."

I lay there traumatized and scared. What if I never see my son’s smiling face again?

I could have died, in more ways than one. But I didn’t.

I woke up.

Now I have three scars to add to my C-section slice. I heal. I cry. I’m angry. I’m jealous. I’m hurting. I don’t want to be with anyone but my family.

20 mg citalopram.

I learn to see the light and be present with my child. I see the stars in his eyes, his smile, his laugh, his everything. I love him to the moon and back, always and forever, because he means the whole wide world to me.

Some day I'll get there and I'll get this mom thing down.

But for now, I'll just take it moment by moment.. One day at a time.

______________

Note: Weirdly enough this idea came to me while I was watching College Hill: Celebrity Edition. There's an episode where they have to come up with poems for a spoken word assignment and it got me thinking. This stream of consciousness sums up 2-3 years in less than 1500 words.