Every time I think that the six week mark after having a baby is sort of a “magical moment” and every time I am reminded that it’s just weird. At two weeks postpartum, if you look halfway decent, people are complimenting you right and left. You look so GOOD! You look so well rested! Are those normal jeans that you’re wearing? And you’re coming off of the postpartum hormone high, so you feel like they must be right and you go around high fiving yourself thinking: I AM awesome! while simultaneously bursting into tears when you see kittens and puppies and random commercials for the Dove Campaign. Then, at least if you’re me, you fast forward four weeks and you just feel… neither here nor there.
I have enough sense to know that 9 months is a long time for things to shift in one direction and that six weeks is merely a drop in the bucket. I know enough to give myself time to let things change and fall into place and I remember the same feelings from going from 1 to 2 children. Which is why, at my 6 week checkup when the midwife cavalierly said she could hand me a prescription for a SSRI if I wanted one I was not about to even go down that road, just like I’m not going to try on my smallest jeans every day. Let’s just give it a little time and reassess in a month or so or after a few days of real sleep (but seriously, are we almost there yet?). At six weeks I think that we are doing pretty well, all things considered.
Liliana eats like crazy and is gaining weight well.
She is getting plenty of sleep (I on the other hand am hitting the point where it has been 6 weeks and I have had two 5 hour stretches in that entire 6 weeks and I am starting to want to wake up everyone who has the audacity to be asleep while I have to be awake.)
She is growing multiple chins, smiling, and generally wearing way too much pink.
I am managing to produce so much milk that I am getting cleared to become a donor. (Apparently I missed my calling as a wet nurse in the Middle Ages.)
I can fit into a good deal of my old clothing (but not my favorite stuff, yet).
I am running, but not fast, not as many miles as I would like, and with more aimlessness than I’m comfortable with.
I am 3.5 pounds away from my pre-pregnancy weight, which sounds really good (and it IS). Until I remember that that makes for another 7.5 pounds to my happy weight, 9.5 to where I would like to be, and 14.5 to the weight that every good runner who is 5’6″ seems to weigh. (I know that weight isn’t everything when it comes to running fast but it is something.)
And that is just the superficial surface-y sorts of things. Overall, at this point postpartum life feels like I’m stuck in the middle of a long road trip and I can’t seem to just get there already. And since I am more of a destination over “it’s all about the journey” girl, that is not fun. Life right now is a lot like reclaiming those pairs of jeans still in boxes. Too constricting and not quite enough room to breathe. Shimmy, shimmy, suck in, fasten the button, and try not to feel too weird about it all. Life just doesn’t fit right now. None of the old routines work and everything; the cooking, cleaning, shopping, basic existence sorts of things all have to be revamped and reconfigured. And in the meantime, in the midst of the exhausted haze, it just feels like my life doesn’t fit.
There is also something about just having had a baby that makes me want to suddenly cook all natural foods from scratch, go back to school RIGHT NOW, and make every recipe and craft that I’ve ever found on Pinterest. It is very weird. It’s like an anti-survival impulse considering cleaning the bathroom is a stretch right now.
So I will press on and eventually get through the weird limbo stage. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy the overdose of pink and cuteness. It really does all feel worth it when she smiles at me!