When Showering and Going Outside Means It Was a Good Day
About three weeks ago, I was in OB triage. MyChart shows that my clinical note reads, "Chief Complaint: 'I think I'm in labor.'"
Turns out, I was right.
About 20 hours after my first suspicion, we met our first child, a seemingly perfect little girl with a head full of hair, thanks to her dad.
Parenthood is new for me. My husband and I spent so many late nights dreaming about what this chapter would look like, how we would parent, and what our children might look or be like. But nothing prepares you for when it actually happens.
For me, it was sudden. This sweet, slimy baby was in the world. The doctor was tending to me while my baby was across the room, and I couldn't hear a word the doctor was saying. My entire world was across the room, and I needed to know she was okay.
Suddenly, nothing mattered except this tiny little person I had just met.
Going home from the hospital felt like breaking out of jail. All I wanted was to get back to "normal" and be back in my own space.
After 48 hours that felt more like 48 days, we finally came home with our plus one.
These last three weeks have been a total blur. Days aren't real. Everyone in the house is confused about day and night. Food is simply a means of sustaining our survival, as evidenced by a copious amount of granola bars and prepackaged snacks. I've almost permanently traded my contacts for glasses, makeup for a bare face, and presentable clothes for pajamas.
Throughout my pregnancy, I was very intentional about making and maintaining connections with my social circle. It was important to me to create a circle of fellow parents who could catch me when I inevitably felt lost in this whole parenting thing.
My identity has been so wrapped up in my professional roles: therapist, business owner, supervisor, and Type A character. I worked until I was 36 weeks pregnant and eventually decided that between the swollen ankles, severe exhaustion, and a belly larger than life, it was time to start my leave.
That's when I felt my abilities shift. I went from a busy professional to an exhausted mother to be. I got caught up on every episode of Shark Tank and 90 Day Fiancé, twice over. I slept in and went to bed early. I fully embraced every pair of stretchy pants I owned.
As I noticed this shift, I was delusional enough to believe I'd bounce right back as soon as my body physically healed. For that, I blame the cultural expectation that parenthood should somehow fit into the leftover spaces around work, relationships, hobbies, and everything else. I bought into that narrative too.
It didn't take long, however, to realize that for me, parenthood felt like the whole point. Suddenly, everything else seemed to belong in the margins around it.
This shift has not been without a minor identity crisis.
Nowadays, by 3 p.m., I look up from my postpartum couch nest, surrounded by snack wrappers, empty bottles, a dirty diaper or two waiting for the trash, and a mysterious stain on my shirt, wondering: What did I even do today?
If I'm gentle with myself, the answer is obvious.
I comforted my daughter. I held her when she cried. I fed her when she was hungry. I cleaned her when she was dirty. Most importantly, I made her feel safe and loved.
I am laying the foundation for connection and attachment that will last a lifetime. This is the most important job I've ever had. Even through the physical healing, sleep deprivation, and uncertainty, I would do this over and over again.
But that also means things have changed, including my sense of self and, at times, my sense of worth.
In this season, life slows down almost completely. And from the little parenthood village I've built around myself, I've been told it's supposed to.
My cousin shared something with me that has stuck. During this phase of life, if you showered, fed your baby, fed yourself, and got outside, it was a good day.
As my situation has changed, I am realizing my expectations need to change too.
It's almost 3pm, from the couch…
and today was a good day.