how are you?

a little check-in

Dear new mum,

I know that you’re grateful for the flowers. I also know that you’d much rather a warm homemade meal - at all stages of early motherhood, but especially in the first few months.

Everyone asks you the same question, don’t they - how’s it going?

But that question is too vague and the answer is too big.

Of course you try to catch the thoughts that are stumbling through your head, but you also know that you can’t be completely honest because you don’t know how to talk about it just yet. You say: ‘good’ or ‘great’ or ‘getting there’ but what you really mean is: ‘I don’t even know how to describe this, perhaps there aren’t even words for it.’

As they fawn and coo over the child you grew, you stand there sore and dishevelled, feeling like an afterthought. And then you’re not even sure if you heard them correctly when they asked about sleep and who he looks like and when you’ll have another baby and you think: oh my gosh, I just birthed this baby, I’m still bleeding, I’m leaking milk, I don’t know who I am anymore…why would you even ask about the next?

So let me ask you just one question: How are you?

No, not your baby. You.

I want to know how you are.

You don’t need to answer me straightaway. Take a few moments if you like, just to check in with yourself.

Perhaps you’re feeling sore and tired. Are you a bit overwhelmed? Yeah, I thought so. It’s really normal to feel like there’s an undercurrent of overwhelm in the early weeks and months because everything is new and you’re learning.

You probably can’t quite explain exactly how you’re feeling because it’s all the things, all at once and that doesn’t make much sense, does it. The simultaneous fast and slow of your days as you put one foot in front of the other, living and being only in response to your baby. Of course you find yourself dreaming of time to yourself but you also don’t want to be more than a room away from this little being that has a stronghold on your heart and your mind.

The truth is, sometimes there are no words and so you just have to feel what the day brings, which at this stage is often joy infused with the discomfort of physical healing and uncertainty. Somedays it’s sleep deprivation and feeding challenges softened only slightly by tiny snippets of love. In the early hours of the morning when it’s still dark and your baby won’t settle, it’s almost impossible to see beyond your own exhaustion.

It’s big, isn’t it. That sense of being cracked wide open; the expectation to continue on, not really knowing what to do, not really knowing who you are.

I was 23 when I had my first baby and I remember thinking: no one told me it would be this way.

I really thought I must have been missing some important information because there were so many times when I just didn’t know what I should be doing. But I’ve since learned that a new mother needs to hear information three to four times for it to really sink in. And also: there’s so much you can be taught, but there is just as much you need to figure out about your baby and yourself and the way you live and breathe and be, together. And that takes time. Of course it does.

But even if someone had told you it would be this way, would you have wholly believed them? It’s only when you’ve birthed your baby, held them close, tucked them into the cradle of your arm and breast and exhaled after the enormity of birth that you realise: oh, this is just the beginning.

And then your hormones come tumbling down and you’re achy and bleeding, none of your clothes fit, milk and tears leak simultaneously and you can’t comprehend what someone is telling you, let alone finish a sentence. But then you bury your nose into the folds of your baby’s neck and you inhale great lungfuls of that intoxicating smell that is the softest and purest thing in the world.

It’s what love smells like, isn’t it. But then you try to move from lying to sitting and you’re reminded that you have no core strength and your body feels a bit broken and you think: this is really hard.

Perhaps you’re still moving gingerly after birth, which is normal for the first few weeks and sometimes as long as a few months. Your body probably feels very different and it may function in a new way, too and this can contribute to a sense of vulnerability - as you move, bathe and go to the toilet.

Hydration is really important for birth recovery so maybe pause reading for a moment and drink some water (room temperature is best). If you can, drink it slowly and hold it in your mouth long enough to let you tongue float - this intentional slowing down helps to activate your vagus nerve which kickstarts your parasympathetic nervous system and helps you feel more grounded and at ease.

You may think that nothing will alleviate your sleep deprivation right now, but the tiny things you do, even when you don’t really have the energy to do them, will help: sun on your face, deep inhalations of fresh air, warm food and gentle body stretches.

Just take it one day at a time, that’s all you can do right now.

And let me tell you: when your newborn grows bigger you’ll pack away the tiny clothes that no longer fit and in a few year’s time, you’ll retrieve them from the back of the wardrobe. You’ll unfold each little piece of cotton clothing, marvelling at the smallness and you’ll bury your face into the singlets and onesies, searching for that smell your baby carried in the precious early days and weeks of their life.

And you’ll think: That was so hard. I miss it so much.

Till next time, take care x