We walked through the apartment, introducing B to her new home.
“This is where we sleep,” I said, walking into our bedroom.
“This is where we cook together,” I said, walking into the kitchen.
“This is where we live,” I said, walking into the living room.
I sat down with her on the couch. My husband, D, sat in the chair beside us. He and I looked at each other from a place beyond words. Wow, we were thinking. And, How could they just let us go home with a new baby when we don’t know what we’re doing?
We had a few weeks together–literally, three–before D had to go back to work. The first day that I heard the door close and lock behind him, I turned to face B.
Wow, I thought. And, How could he just leave me alone with this baby when I don’t know what I’m doing?
Looking back, the hours and days blur. You know the cliches: diapers, feedings, baby naps. I kept a log for months, charting when she woke, ate, needed to be changed. I would tell my husband all about our day when he would come home.
She was born in spring, so we went on walks in the sunshine. We’d walk again after D came home, stopping to smell flowers, talking about this new beginning.
I had wonderful, beautiful days with her. And I had dark, frustrating days with her. I did that thing a couple times where I hid in the bathroom to cry for a bit.
In other, immeasurable ways, I was having a hard time. I was worried constantly. I was worried about normal, adaptive things, the way that mothers forever have worried in order to keep their child alive. And I worried about irrational, phobic things, things that were damaging, things that were taking me away from beautiful days with her.
I got through it. Or, I’m getting through it every day.
I have worked hard to get to where I am, and I know it’s not over yet. This blog will chart my journey, as well as celebrate what I’ve learned along the way.
Check out my eBook, Coping with Postpartum Depression and Anxiety: A Holistic Guide