It was 3 years ago when I had a 2 month old. One tiny 2 month old. She couldn’t talk or walk. She wasn’t asking for a snack, to go outside or find her favorite blanket. She didn’t want to watch Dora or play baby doll or sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” with her (again) because she forgot the words. Yet, I was overwhelmed. She wanted to breastfeed all the time and never wanted to be put down. And she cried…all the time…for no good reason. Yes, I was overwhelmed.
I remember catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I hadn’t showered in an embarrassingly long period of time. I was still carrying most of my “baby” weight, which is such a bad look. I had on blue baggy sweat pants and a non-matching breastfeeding accessible button down shirt that was stained with spit up (which is a polite way of saying baby puke) and my breasts had leaked through. My hair was matted and caked with Lord knows what. I saw myself and in that moment thought “what have I done?!? Who is that person? Where did the hip, cool, delicious Maria go? And the scariest question of all: will she ever come back?