Sometimes I have no idea when your last feed was. I try to remember to time them, space them out, but the numbers on the clock look like hieroglyphics to me. And it takes me about twelve minutes to change a diaper, and you’re crying the whole time. I just want to make sure all the poop is out of your vagina. I read that that was really important. But I can tell I’m hurting you. Your poop is green when it’s supposed to be orange, and it seems like you’re uncomfortable when I feed you. I have no idea what to do about that. I try to burp you in every position, but rarely do I hear the release of air come from your little body. I google everything I can, and I’ve got tons of books. I really am trying. I just . . . sort of suck at this.
I can’t get you to take a pacifier to save my life. I know it would help, but you just don’t seem to want it. We went for a walk yesterday—a short one—and you started screaming. Some old woman on the street said to me, “Can’t you give her a pacifier? She’d be much happier.” I nodded and told her I would try. Then I sobbed when we turned the corner. You and I were both crying. I know she was just trying to help. But she might as well have been saying, “Why can’t you take care of your own child?” Which is exactly what scares me. That I don’t really know how to take care of you. That I’m in over my head. That I’ll never be the mother you deserve.
I used to be someone I think you’d be proud of. Not too long ago. A cheerful, confident person. I liked myself. That’s so weird to say, but I did. I liked spending time with myself. I liked being me. It was so easy to smile. I hope that person comes back soon so that you can meet her.
It might seem like I’m being too open with you, too unfiltered. I have a feeling that all this, what I’m telling you, was NOT what the Pinterest board that recommended writing letters to baby was suggesting! Ha. But the thing is that I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this stuff. I can’t tell your aunt, because she’d just give me some judgmental old “I told you so” lecture. Talking about baby stuff with her is sensitive, anyway. She has a rough past when it comes to babies. My coworker suggested, right before I gave birth, that I join a new moms’ group, but how do I even find one? None of my friends have babies or are anywhere close to having them. I’ve had a couple of visitors, but no one who I can really open up to about how much I’m struggling.
You know what’s kind of funny? There is one person out there in the world who knows just what I’m going through: your father’s wife. Assuming, of course, that it was her baby I heard on the phone. Maybe I should call her again. Ask her if she wants to swap notes on sleep sacks and wake windows.
Ha. That’s the sleep deprivation talking.
I wish I could talk to my mom. I told you she died when I was young—well, I was only a year old, and she died by suicide. Maybe if she’d known she wasn’t the only one having a hard time, it would have somehow been easier for her. So my hope is that, if one day you have a new baby and you’re struggling, you’ll reread this and remember that you aren’t alone, that I went through it, too. And that you can always talk to me.
There you go, waking up from a nap. You’re stirring right beside me, making your “hangry” face, contorting with a cry that’s still brewing but hasn’t yet been released. Gosh, you’re cute, even when you’re about to wail.
And that’s the funny thing—no matter how exhausted I am, I’m always happy when you wake up. Excited to see you, even though you’ve been beside me the whole time. Relieved you’re alive. Relieved you’re real. It’s such a strange but lovely feeling.
I love you, and I’m sorry I’m a mess. And thank you for being patient with me while I figure all of this out. Because even though you’re just a baby, I can tell you love me, too. Even though I probably don’t deserve it.
Love you forever,
Mommy
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday, October 7
Usually we all walked out of our meetings together, even if our pace was ridiculously slow because someone had to keep stopping to wipe drool from a mouth or pick up a dropped sock. Our politeness was even stronger than the rush to get home or to happy hour. But this time, Kira just bolted. I decided to try to catch up with her. I hadn’t talked to her all week, and she seemed off. Plus I wanted to get her take on the Montauk invite; in the unlikely event that I’d be able to go, I’d much rather she be there, too. The idea of it being just me, Vanessa, and Selena was a little intense.