(Diary) Week 27: Look, You're Showing Emotion
Well, isn't this something.
Welcome to my diary. These are entires I wrote during my own pregnancy. What you’re about to read is unfiltered, unedited, and perhaps a bit uncanny. But these are my raw feelings written in real-time. Everyone’s perspective and journey is different. This is mine.
Week 27: Look, You're Showing…Emotion
Dear Jen,
Welcome to the week where you finally show emotion.
Where all of this feels really, real.
Where you cry just at the look of baby stuff.
Butt paste? Nose extractor? A swaddle thing?
Just typing those words makes you get waterworks.
You ask your questions like:
Am I going to actually be able to be someone’s mom?
How can I do this without losing my mind?
Will I give up everything I am so this baby can live the happiest and best life?
Will I ever sleep again.
Your mom answers that one in the car for you, on the way to a baby superstore, without you even asking.
She says no.
She says she’s still not sleeping, and you’re 34-years-old, living in a completely different state.
The baby store smells like a playground. You’ve been to those before and the smell makes you think of the days when you ate sand, drank apple juice, hoped nobody would pretend to want to play with you, only to then push you down on the concrete. Knees on pavement is something you wish you didn’t remember so well.
You can’t help but wonder what parts of this baby journey you’ll actually enjoy.
You think about it for a while.
You can’t think of anything, actually.
You Google: Can postpartum depression start before you are postpartum?
You’re paranoid Google will laugh at you.
You haven’t talked to your therapist in 6-months. To be honest, you’re paranoid she’ll laugh at you too.
You’re not supposed to be so sad and scared about being a mom.
Everyone around you tells you this when they get a hint that you’re freaking out.
It’s as if they ripped some page out of a pregnancy etiquette book and shoved it in your face.
Page 34: You’re supposed to be grateful, happy, madly in love with what awaits. And if you’re not, you must not admit that to anyone, ever. When you’re up at 2:46am whimpering in bed because nothing has ever made you more afraid than this, you’re supposed to tell your partner: no, I wasn’t crying last night. It must have been gas! You’re supposed to tell your friends: everything is great and I’ve never felt better.
You text a friend who has a kid for her most regal advice.
How do I do all of this? How will I be okay?
She responds by saying: It’ll be the greatest thing ever, just wait, you’ll see.
But before you decide whether or not to believe her, she sends you a photo that baby number two is on the way.
A liar, you label her as in your head, one of those people who were made to do the thing you’re so desperately scared to do in the first place.
You roam around the baby superstore with your mom and a sales associate named Jenna.
Both ask you if you have any questions.
Both make you feel like you should be asking questions.
Both won’t stop pestering you until your mouth opens and you gargle something, anything, out.
“Yeah, so ummm what is the difference between a crib and a bassinet?”
“Great question!” They both say in unison.
You’ve won! You’ve fooled them! You’ve bought yourself two extra minutes to sulk in panic.
Dock-a-tot? Peri bottle? Cloth diapers? A $300 multi-motion baby swing?
WTF is all of this and do I need it? Can someone just tell me if I need it?
Nobody really tells you anything about being a mom and you can only ask your friends so many questions before they send you a book in the mail or tell you to take an online course, or give up, completely, and just start saying:
“Yes! You’ll be fine!” As a response to every question that you ask.
Or you can read Reddit threads or Google search results.
You can ask this baby superstore sales associate, Jenna, but all she seems to say is:
“It’s up to you if you need it! I really can’t say.”
Someone please say something.
But everyone around you just says:
You’re not supposed to be so sad and scared about being a mom.
And that’s how you learn the first lesson of being a mom:
Nobody will teach you anything. Nobody can tell you the truth.
Your truth is yours, not theirs. Their truth belongs to them and it has faded over time, it is foggy, it is furiously co-mingled with all of the things they have seen and survived.
You’re not there yet. You’re on your own with this.
You always have been.