“Damn that’s fucked up,” I thought as I looked in the mirror.
I leaned in closer examining the red splotches and dots on my face that seemed to have cropped up overnight. Probably another shift in hormones, I speculate.
I’ve been thinking that thought, or something similar to it, a lot lately about my body. I escaped stretch marks in my first pregnancy, but my body is still permanently changed. It’s not just the weight; my boobs are different from almost a year of nursing. My hips are wider. Butt bigger. Cellulite spread.
I leaned back, away from my reflection. I really wanted to sleep while the baby was sleeping, but I told myself I should be getting things done around the house. Writing on my blog. Doing something useful. Then I caught myself.
I caught myself getting wrapped up in expectations. Whose expectations? I’m not sure.
Mine? Society’s? Mine via society’s? I keep placing these demands on myself instead of just being present and taking care of me the way I need to.
By six months postpartum (or so), people really expect you to have your shit together. Like suddenly when the sun rises on the 182nd day you are suddenly able to sleep all night, exercise, eat right, lose weight, take a shower, and put on make-up, all while having a sparkling clean house and looking well put together in your pre-pregnancy clothes. For some mothers, this might be a reality. They are able to find their groove and regain control of their lives. For others—like me—it isn’t. The baby was still up every two hours. Sleep deprivation was taking its toll, and I looked and felt more like a walking zombie every day. It was also causing depression. Some days it took everything I had to just get through the day; forget adding in the fitness and healthy eating part.
It took me 11 months. Eleven sleep deprived months. These days, finally, he is sleeping at night. The fog is starting to lift. I feel less depressed on more days. I still sleep during the day when he naps, subconsciously feeding the sleepy girl that demands more to compensate for the hours she’s lost. Eleven months of a challenging baby and here I am feeling guilty. I feel guilty when I choose to sleep. I feel guilty when I don’t want to go for a walk. I feel guilty when I’m too damn tired and un-showered to leave the house. Why? Because I’m letting someone else’s expectations dictate how I should be acting as a mom, instead of acting out of self-care for the mother that I am.
I keep reading blogs that emphasize self-care. “You can’t pour from an empty cup,” everyone keeps saying. Well I must be living in the fucking Sahara desert then,because that cup has been bone dry for years. In other words, I’m really bad at self-care. I constantly put others first, putting all needs above my own. Having a baby just made it worse, particularly since he’s a demanding one.
I see what I am supposed to be. I see photo after photo on my Instagram feed of these stay at home moms in white, bright houses where nothing is out of place. They are showered and look lean and healthy. Their kids looked bathed and happy. “I’m always so happy,” they say, “I just love motherhood so much that I never have a bad day.” Bull. Shit.
Look, I can’t judge you. And I won’t. If that is really your life, then God bless you,boo,because you are the epitome of optimism and I’m jealous. But I’m guessing for a lot of those photos, the moms have set up help, a heaping pile of laundry outside of the frame, and that was their first shower all week. These images, along with these expectations that live up somewhere next to the iCloud in the sky, set mothers up for failure. How can I possibly attain such perfection while raising a perfectly polite and sane human being at the same time? And I’m supposed to have more?!
Listen, mama, I’ll tell you the truth. Lean in close (but not too close because I didn’t put on makeup). I’ve got two words for you: 1) Fuck 2) It. Fuck it. Yes FUCK IT. And not in the giving up hope because it’s pointless kind of way, oh no sister. I’m saying FUCK IT because you ARE already doing great, you ARE already enough, you ARE a great mom. Don’t put those expectations on yourself. Be the mom you need to be, and it will be exactly the kind of mom your kids need.
Yes it would be nice to get this extra weight off. It would be nice to not eat so much and be hungry all the time because of the calorie deficit created by feeding another living person from my own body. But I have been breastfeeding for almost an entire year and that is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life. I’m [slowly] working on getting back into shape, but I will get there. And the dishes and laundry can wait. Rolling around with my son on the floor is more important than any demand of you should be that society is whispering in my ear.
My son doesn’t care that I’m fat. He doesn’t care that my hair is dirty. He doesn’t care that I didn’t clean the kitchen. He doesn’t care that my house isn’t Instagram worthy. That gappy, toothy grin tells me that I’m doing it right, and that is enough for me.