A LETTER TO POSTPARTUM ME

Hi mama. I know it's 2am, but do you have a sec to chat? You don't have to put the baby down. I won't ask you to take a seat; we both know how that will turn out. Just stay, as you are, swaying back and forth in the darkness. I can more or less make out two weary eyes on your tear-stained face. Don't worry, I'll do the talking for the both of us.

Let's start with the ultimate hard truth: motherhood is hard. No one warned you. Or maybe they did and you didn't understand what they were saying. But how could you, without being a mother and experiencing the (very low) lows and (not that high) highs that come with that title? It's okay to not enjoy every moment. It's okay to wish the newborn stage away. And I know it may not feel like it — but it's okay to berate yourself and ask, 'what have I done?' Really. It doesn't make you a failure; it makes you a new mum. This season is for surviving, not thriving. Read that paragraph again and say it aloud three times. Even still, it's okay not to believe it. I never did.

Ask for help. I'm begging you. I know it's not your usual style but please don't become a literal martyr. To clarify, 'help' isn't one-size fits all. Need someone else to empty the dishwasher so that you can hold your baby? That's help. Oh, you'd rather someone else hold your baby so that you can empty the dishwaher? That's help too. Just as warranted, just as necessary. You are not a burden on anyone but yourself at this stage; I can assure you that every single person that you love would do anything in their power to keep you from drowning. Let them.

The loneliness is real; it's not in your head. You might never get a moment to yourself. You might feel overstimulated and overtouched all day long. You might take your baby to the bathroom with you, to bed with you, to the doctors with you. You might count down the minutes — nay, the seconds — until your husband comes home so that you can finally take a beat alone. Contrary to how you think all of that would make you feel, you're still going to be lonely. It's up to you to manage your baby's needs. It's up to you to pack the nappy bag for every (even remote) possibility. It's up to you to comfort them when they cry. It's up to you, it's up to you, it's up to you. Maternity leave will be the longest, loneliest 9 months of your life — but the irony? The cruel, cruel irony? You'll miss every single second of it once you return to work and those decisions aren't up to you anymore.

Try not to worry that other mums are doing it better than you. There is no 'better' in motherhood; the best you can give is enough. If that means bottle feeding instead of breastfeeding as a result of an unplanned C-section, that's enough. If that means putting your baby down and leaving the room so that you can scream into a pillow, that's enough. If that means rocking your baby to sleep and contact-napping so that you can watch an episode of Gilmore Girls — you guessed it — that's enough. Mothers should be cheering each other on for every success (big or small), not tearing each other down for not doing it 'their' way. I can assure you that your baby is not looking at other mums and wondering 'what if?' (I mean, they can't see more than 12 inches in front of them... but the point still stands.) YOU are their entire world; YOU are their entire reason for being. And that's more than enough.

Before I let you close those puffy eyes, I'm going to leave you with two simple words that you're about to embark on a love-hate relationship with: just wait. Just wait until you start weaning and have to carry double the amount of spare clothes with you. Just wait until they start crawling and you can't leave the room for even a second. But... just wait until you hear your baby belly laugh for the first time (or the second, or the third, or the fourth or the fifth or the sixth). Just wait until they reach out to you with their little arms to ask to be picked up. Just wait until they say your name for the first time. Just wait, just wait, just wait. This too shall pass.

Goodnight, sweet mama.