I’m day two postpartum and my question is… what the actual f**k just happened? – an opinion-based blog
I always wanted 3 kids. So did my husband. We talked about it before we got married. We threw names around. We wondered if we’d have two boys and a girl, or two girls and a boy. Imagine if we had 3 girls and they all possessed my stubbournness. Would we survive it? Mmm… Not sure.
Let’s just hope I can actually fall pregnant for starters.
Anyway, we were such eager beavers, we even designed and built our family home with 3 kid’s bedrooms in mind.
That was so 2014.
Let’s fast forward to Dec 31, 2017. Day two post the birth of our beautiful baby boy, Leo. I’m standing under a lukewarm shower in the hospital. I’m using the handheld nozzle to rinse my lady bits while I attempt to pee and hope to God that the warm water eases the sting from the 5 stitches I’ve got holding everything in. Yep, I’ve endured the lovely procedure of an episiotomy just 12 hours prior.
My husband says he’ll never forget the noise the scissors made when they made that cut. Thankfully at that point the epidural had kicked in and I was so exhausted I didn’t even notice it happening.
Two hours of non-stop, unsuccessful pushing led to the inevitable procedure. I’d seen the forceps on the table next to my gracefully splayed legs, and with the small knowledge I had at the time about instrumental delivery, I knew, even then, that I didn’t want those cold, silver tongs anywhere near me. My OB threatened to use them, at which point I think I may have sprayed him with some profanities and declared “Nope! I’m pushing this baby out… COME ON!!”
Next contraction came the cut, the hand right up there to shift baby’s head and then the vacuum. Boom, Leo was out. So, in the end, still a physically traumatic kinda birth in my opinion.
Back to the shower.
My nipples are already grazed and sore from a night of non-stop feeding. There’s soft squishy skin where my baby boy lived for the last 9 months. I have a bruise on my leg from some injection that’s meant to stop excessive bleeding. I feel achy. Everywhere. It’s like I’ve just climbed a mountain and the endorphins from achieving such a feat have kicked in, but I’m utterly spent.
I wash my face with my favourite cleanser, and pat myself dry with a fluffy new towel (a tip from a friend who was already a mum; she told me to bring some of my favourite products with me to hospital so I’d feel a little pampered during my time there. She was SO RIGHT (and I pass this advice on to anyone I can). I stick an icepack into a very attractive adult nappy, yank them up, get dressed and step out of the bathroom to see my husband holding our newborn.
I look him dead in the eye and say, very matter-of-factly; “there is no way I can do this more than one more time.” Then I sit down and have a good little cry. My body doesn’t feel like my own. I mean, I’m crying because I’m feeling proud of myself for being able to grow, house and deliver a human life. But I’m also crying in fear. What am I meant to do with this little person now? Will my body ever feel the same? Is this dragging sensation down below normal? How long will this nipple pain last? Why am I already so tired? Like… what the actual f**k just happened?
If you’re TTC or currently pregnant, apologies for the graphic nature of that very endearing tale, but I’ve come full circle, and no word of a lie, 5 years on, my husband and I are still toying with the idea of having a third, so it can’t be all bad, right?!
To those who are early postpartum, are you like #same, right now?
Moral of the story; it’s ok to focus on the pity party. It’s your party and you can cry if you bloody well want to. But hold onto the first part; the pride part. It’ll help you get through. Your body was made for this. You are an absolute goddess, and if you’ve hit this page, you’re already part of an amazing crew of empowered women who can truly appreciate the humongous achievement of being born as a mother.
Click around lovelies. It’s time to level up.