Post...Pardon?

A deeply unserious (but kind of serious?) look at my first month as a mom of two.

For context, I’ve started this post five times.

I wanted to write something about the first month as a mom of two from before I even gave birth to Frankie, but post arrival I just haven’t known what to say. Which I think really says it all. I am…adrift.

I can see shore, but can’t find my paddle. Or the paddle is in my hand but I start rowing backwards. Or I see shore and there’s chaos on the beach so maybe my rudderless boat is better. Or sometimes I’m on shore, getting a great tan, but there’s that boat just floating out there, signifying that I’ll eventually have to get back in eventually, for whatever practical reason, but I want to just enjoy shore.

As far as metaphors go, I’ll give that one a C-.

I had a grand plan for all these thoughts I knew would come post baby. I even made an outline because, while of course the baby would be different and the journey would be different, I had essentially been here before so I should have some idea what I’m doing…right?

That might be the crux of it all—I do know what I’m doing, but that is no longer the problem. Now, in knowing what I’m doing (in the most basic sense of the word), I also know too much. I have done this before and know the pitfalls. Before kids I had heard stories, but they went in one ear and out the other. Now those stories stay stuck. The good, sure, but mostly the scare. And the TikToks. Lord knows I have watched too many TikToks (not by choice, my algorithm is definitely playing on my postpartum fears). And I’ve read those comments on the TikToks, sharing other stories or shaming anyone for sharing their story or telling you how their story is wrong and they should drink milk straight from a cow…really, I’m beginning to hate TikTok.

So while I experienced it all before, heard and saw a lot (sometimes unwillingly), this time I am hyper aware of all the scary parts. I’m not flying by the seat of my pants—I did it blindly before and now I’ve chosen to go through it again, this time eyes wide open and I feel absolutely insane for doing so.

It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway—I’m so grateful for not one, but two healthy babies. I’m grateful for a partner who wakes up in the middle of the night (sometimes with a hard nudge, but mostly unprovoked) and doesn’t comment on my mood swings. I’m grateful for family who came to help and doctors who didn’t make me feel guilty when I quit breastfeeding after two weeks (I’d enter some piece of defense here, but I don’t care enough to do so—until they tell me serial killers are more likely to be formula feed, I’ll sleep okay at night.)

I’m very grateful because, again, I know so much more now and have heard so much more that I can’t help but be grateful…but I still feel insane.

The one thing I didn’t factor in when I made my outline for this post that would turn into multiple posts that would then be picked up by some publisher and then turned into a book of essays and (obviously) become a bestseller and lead to me having a career as an author turned screenwriter because why not become a screenwriter (if this is beginning to sound like Nora Ephron’s biography minus the cheating husband it’s probably because it is completely stolen from her biography but who can blame me for wanting her career minus the husband part?)…the one thing I didn’t factor in was I couldn’t write it funny.

It never occurred to me that I’d have trouble laughing about all these moments. Even if it’s just by myself in a room and one of those “I’m losing control of the situation” laughs, I can usually find a way to laugh. I don’t think much is worth doing if we can’t find a way to laugh about it. And before we get caught up in this laughing piece, this isn’t some call for help or dear diary moment worry you that I haven’t laughed the entire time Frankie has been here—I also have a toddler living in my home, I’ve definitely laughed. I can even PROUDLY say Frankie’s entry into the world started with a laugh. When we realized it was time to push, the doctor had to tell me “don’t laugh” because she was sliding out and they weren’t ready. She arrived on a laugh, she’s surrounded by laughter (and tears because like I said…I have a toddler) and we will laugh at all these moments and many more for years to come, but some days I don’t feel like laughing. Somedays laughing sounds exhausting so I just don’t. Can’t say I’ve loved that feeling.

So each time when I came to write this, I struggled to find the laugh and that made me stop. Because why write it if it’s not at least funny? No one wants to read about me being sad or anxious or crying because my toddler pulled my hair or me going to bed at 8pm and skipping Housewives because right now they don’t make me laugh (RHOSLC is excluded from this narrative but RHOBH and RHOP have been very lack luster in my time of need). And sure, being honesty and open and real is nice too, but it’s also draining too and I’m already drained. And I’m pretty sure we’re all being a little too honest and open nowadays so why add my word vomit to the list?

And yet…here’s some word vomit. With very little editing.

There’s a reel going around right now about how you don’t start feeling like yourself again until at least two years postpartum. I would like that reel a lot more if I was just approaching Coco’s second birthday in May instead of the reality which is I restarted that clock with Frankie. The hormonal rage boils over every time I see it shared, anger at myself for even being upset about the reset because, again, I’M VERY GRATEFUL AND LOVE MY DAUGHTERS, but also anger at my own confusion when trying to define who I even am at this point and remember who I even was.

I’m proud of the woman I’ve become—the mom who juggles work and daycare pick up, who untangles hair and tantrums while finding time to wash my own hair. The one who still has conversations and interest outside her kids with her husband. The woman who has added three meals to their empty cook book, discovered the power of an air fryer, who still finds time to read and takes a break from doomscrolling as much as possible. The woman who realizes how much better the next morning is after and edible instead of wine. I’m proud of becoming a mom and loving being a mom and having a better understand for my own mom.

But I also wonder where the other woman went—the one who liked to socialize, who liked to leave the house, who didn’t think leaving the house was a death sentence made up of overpacked bags and potential tantrums in public. The woman who did girls nights and girls trips and responded to texts within an appropriate amount of time and remembered what the appropriate amount of time was. The one who said “I love you” for no reason and “do you want to watch a movie?” without fear of regretting staying up past ten o’clock. The woman who believed she could climb the corporate ladder, who wasn’t afraid of the ladder, who wasn’t afraid of getting off the ladder, who wasn’t afraid of losing their insurance, who wanted a raise because she deserved it, not because child care was so damn expensive and she kept ordering clothes that would never really fit. The woman who had big dreams and small dreams. The one who had a glass of wine because it was a Tuesday and didn’t care it was Tuesday. The woman who wasn’t constantly googling things on WebMD.

Being afraid isn’t new for me—I let fear dictate many things in my life, sometimes wisely (because we all can’t be dad), but mostly to my own disservice.

If no one else reads this, I hope two years postpartum me does and sees some of those old qualities mixed in with the new. Not all of them (child care is never going to get cheaper), but a few parts of myself I feel like I’ve been looking for. I hope that me gives themself a break and also some tough love. I hope she takes more pictures of herself and doesn’t take this post too seriously. I hope she works on her kegels.

Like I said, I’m not worried about the laughter. Just this morning I laughed at Coco coming around the corner looking like Jane Fonda with a headband around her head. I laughed when I heard her dad say “no thank you, Coco” while she banged the cats’ food bowls together like she was auditioning for a remake of Drumline (I’m starting to doubt the “no thank you” methodology by the way). I laughed while writing this when Frankie let out a fart so loud I was sure someone else was in the house. So I know it’s there, I just need future me to laugh at herself a little more.

I can and will laugh, I might just laugh at different things. I can and will leave the house, just maybe for different reasons. I don’t know about ladders or which ladder, I don’t know about a girls trip outside the girls text, but I will text back. I will go on a date with my husband, I just also might ask to still be in bed by nine.

And I will share this post not for any other reason than I finally wrote it and sort of edited it and that’s a big step for me right now regardless of anything else.