All that Glitters is not being a New Mom
Chapter 6 in the Times of Amma Story.
Honest Dispatches From The Trenches of Motherhood
Three days after bringing a brand new human into the world, one is expected to bundle said human and get one’s butt home to raise one’s brand new human. Minimal instructions are provided. The idea is that you should know what you are supposed to do.
((For context, read the earlier chapters of the Times of Amma here. But if you’d rather just read on, you do you!))
My daughter had been bathed in the hospital for the first time. She did not like it. We have a photo of her looking absolutely furious at the audacity of the nurse who bathed her. This was the little rage bug I had brought home. Plus, she had soft spots on the top of her head that I wasn’t supposed to squish. Plus, I had a scratchy belly band around my middle, which was supposed to phwoosh my middle back into shape. Because, guess what? My belly had not received the memo to bounce back. This despite watching actresses do this all the time! If Rachel Greene could have a flat belly a day after having a baby, why couldn’t I? Of course, it probably helped that Rachel Greene had rock-hard abs before having said fake baby.
At the very least, I had hoped to lose the waddle, but no. That was there, too. The painkillers helped, but….dear reader, excuse the TMI, but honestly you are the one reading a blog about motherhood and motherhood is not all smiles and pearls and cuddles. It’s also gross and raw and about feeling stuck. Speaking of stuck, the bathroom had become a battleground for more reasons than one. Lowering one’s underclothes to sit on a toilet was hell. I preferred the contractions to this. Trying to get the body to cooperate was also hell. I did question my life choices many a time in the restroom.
Next came pulling the underwear up again. You see, it is agony and also terrifying to even consider bending or squatting after a c-section. Especially when you didn’t bother to read up on recovery beforehand because — well, you already know why because you are here after reading the previous chapter, yes?
After contemplating life and the universe and wondering if I’d be stuck here forever, I suddenly hit upon an idea worthy of Shark Tank!
You see, my dear readers, all you need to be a self-sufficient woman immediately after you have had surgery that has cut through several layers of you and sewed you back together is anything with a hook on it. As I looked around wildly like my dog does when she hears anything like the crinkling of a food packet in the vicinity, my eyes fell upon a lone hanger on a towel rack. With an almighty sigh, I rose from my throne of pain and made my way to the hangar, taking care not to walk too fast lest I trip and fall flat on my face. I get to the hanger. I take a deep breath hold on to the flat side, and gingerly aim the hook towards my underwear. I felt like a goddess of yore, aiming an arrow with the sort of focus and concentration that would have been helpful when writing my first book. It was as if I had blinkers on, and all I could see was what I was aiming at.
Success!
It took me 12 minutes, but I did it inch by inch, and when that elastic strap twanged against my considerable bandage, I knew that I wouldn’t have to ‘127 hours’ (movie reference, C’mon. This is a cultured person’s blog!) myself in a bathroom.
Outside, my 3-day-old daughter had been kept company by her grandparents. Two on either side as she lolled about on the couch. I passed by them slowly to my nursing chair and asked one of them to kindly bring my child over.
Reluctantly, I kid you not, reluctantly one of them did. For all the trauma of the emergency c-section and the dramatic dipping of her heartbeat, my baby had decided to spare me the chaos of nursing. She was good at it and took to it as if she had read all the books I hadn’t. I had no issues nursing at all. I thanked my body for being a champ and being good with the milking aspect of motherhood despite the pain, pain meds, and exhaustion. I was never more relaxed than when I was in my comfy nursing chair, her head in the crook of my arm, drinking away with her huge eyes focused on me, sleep and satiation making her eyelids heavy and droopy, till she would slump sleepily, her rosebud mouth open and milk spilling out of it on to her chin.
It was scary how protective I felt of her. While she was inside me, all I had to do was eat healthy and stay fit to give her the best possible chance. But now here she was, this tiny creature with a shock of straight hair, the biggest eyes and the softest cheeks, and I felt like it was on me to make sure she could be everything she wanted to be. All this while, I kept her safe from everything that would or could hurt her. It was crushing and humbling at the same time. I had no idea how to raise a human. I’d look at my husband passed out on the bed. He had quit his job to start a new company with one of his closest friends a few months back. In essence, he was birthing a corporate baby, too. How were we qualified? What had we been thinking? There was no point going down that road of thinking — not like there were any exchanges or refunds down the road for any of the decisions we had made!
The day after we came home from the hospital, we did a mom-and-daughter twinning photoshoot. In anticipation of this moment, we (my mom and I) had bought matching red and white polka dot dresses for my daughter and myself. These dresses were bought back when I still believed in things like birthing plans and easy deliveries. I had revised my beliefs in many things since then, but this was a fun thing we had wanted to do before my parents returned to India at the end of the week.
So, I went and got ready, and my mom and mother-in-law changed my daughter into the tiny red and white dress. I sat her on my lap, propping her head up with my hand. She was small against me. My husband crouched in front with his camera — and I mean an actual SLR camera and not a phone. Both the newly minted grandmothers positioned themselves behind him. They started cooing at my baby to attract her attention towards the lens. After the first click, I fixed my smile and looked down at my baby. She looked so helpless and small. And I had the strongest feeling wash over me.
I didn’t want to document this silly matching-matching moment or pose with my baby, who was not even a week old. I just wanted to be alone with her. And not hurt and understand her, give her the space she needed and take the space I wanted for myself. To the absolute horror of my family, I burst into tears a moment before my baby did. I scooped her up, shook my head, and asked everyone to leave the room. I don’t remember articulating what I was feeling. But I remember thinking that the pregnancy is done and my baby is here — aren’t I supposed to be happy and glowing and smiling? Why do I feel so sad and like I have no control over anything? Weren’t all the tears that I was shedding right now supposed to be joyful? And this felt anything but that. While I would have a happy picture to look back at years from now, it would still be a lie.
Looking back, I understand that a lot of this was the mix of hormones sleep deprivation and pain medication and pain. But there was also this need for me to pretend I was ok. I couldn’t show people how exhausted and how overwhelmed I was. This was a test. I would ace it. I never stopped to question why I felt that way.
New Year’s Eve came along. We all wore festive clothes with white as the theme and took family photos. It was a good day.
I was still staying away from wine and coffee because my baby had started cluster feeding (which is feeding as if she has never seen milk before and at all times). I didn’t want to “contaminate” my milk supply. Champagne was being popped, especially by the four grandparents, who were high at their new title as well. I excused myself at some point and went to bed only to go into that surreal, light sleep that moms of newborns have where you either get 45 minutes to an hour of sleep because baby is hungry, baby wants to nurse to calm down, baby has pooped or peed or baby just wants mom. I woke up at some point because I was thirsty. The water bottle on my bedside was empty. I nudged my sleeping husband, who was out as if he had just returned from a marathon. I hissed at him in a low voice because I was not going to wake the baby up earlier than I had to! He did not move. With murderous rage in my heart, yet while remaining deathly silent, I slowly turned to the right. In four days, I had figured out the best way to get up without help after a c-section. So, if you ever find yourself in my position, this is what you do. You turn to the side of the bed, where you get out while still lying down. In my case, the right.
Then you dig your elbow into the bed and raise your upper body as much as you can till you can put your palms flat on the bed.
Then, you push yourself up until you can slowly move your legs to the floor and ease yourself up.
After all of this gymnastics, I silently made my way to the kitchen. In 2011, we didn’t have fancy bottles bought for storing water. We reused the tinted big bottles of soft drinks into which we poured filtered water. I chose one that didn’t seem too full and, therefore, wouldn’t be too heavy to lift. I lifted the bottle to my lips, let the cold liquid flow into my parched mouth and almost immediately spat it out.
This wasn’t water. This was Flat champagne. One of the partying grandparents had decided they didn’t want the rest of the champagne to go to waste, so they had stored it in my water bottle. This was my life now. Old champagne I did not want in an old soft drink bottle. All I wanted was some water. Would no one get me some water? I had just given birth and had unexpected surgery to do so. Was some regular water too much to ask for?
As I contemplated throwing an absolute hormonal and exhausted fit, I could hear my daughter start to cry from the bedroom. Seemed like I wasn’t the only one who was thirsty.
Therefore, my tantrums, trials and tribulations will have to wait till the next chapter.
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This is me documenting my early motherhood journey before it gets hazier and hazier. If you can connect, relate, or like what you just read, please feel free to hit me up on Instagram.
