“Birdie, I don’t know what you want. Food? You just ate. Diaper? Fresh as a daisy. Snuggles? I’m literally a human mattress right now.”
Do you know how hard it is to negotiate with someone who doesn’t speak English? But the worst part? I wasn’t even mad at her. I was mad at myself. Because no matter what I did, I felt like I was doing it wrong. The baby books? Useless. The blogs? Full of lies. Every mom influencer on Instagram? Somehow look like they just stepped off a yacht with their three-week-old, while I was wondering if dry shampoo counted as a shower. I didn’t feel like a mom. I felt like… an imposter.
Before Birdie was born, I thought I had it all figured out. I was the planner, the list-maker, the woman who could juggle a career, a marriage, and a new life. When I first found out I was pregnant, I thought I was ready. My husband and I spent weeks decorating the nursery. Pastel walls. Tiny clothes. A rocking chair in the corner. I imagined us here, rocking her to sleep, singing lullabies, watching her grow into this little person who would make everything worth it. But then she came, and everything I imagined… disappeared. She was perfect. But I wasn’t.
I should’ve known something was wrong when I couldn’t stop counting. Her breaths, the ounces of milk she drank, the number of times she blinked during a feeding. I was afraid that Birdie wasn’t eating enough, that she was sleeping too much or not enough, that the perfume my mother-in-law wore was going to give her asthma, that her belly button was infected, that she was too hot, that she was too cold, that her swaddle was wrong that she wasn’t getting enough milk, that she had acid reflux, that she was going to die at any second. I felt like everything I did was wrong.
Okay. Okay. I can do this. Milk, bread, coffee. In and out. Why is it so… loud in here? Oh no. Is that Karen from the mom group? Hi! Oh, yeah, just running errands. Haha, yeah, it’s exhausting, right? Did she just…? No. No way she just gave me the pity look. It’s fine. We’re fine. Okay, Birdie. This is just a strap. Normal people can do this. Regular moms. Just click it in. Why won’t it click? Come on. Just… Just go in! They’re all watching. I know they are. They’re thinking… “Look at her. She can’t even—” Forget the carrier. Just grab the milk. Of course. Why can’t I do this? It’s just milk! It’s not hard. This isn’t hard. Moms do this every single day. So why can’t I? I’m sorry, Birdie. I’m so sorry.
The worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the silence. I tried to fill it—turned on the TV, played music, called friends. But nothing worked. My husband tried to help. He really did. But how do you explain to someone that the problem isn’t the baby, or the sleepless nights, or even him? The problem is me. He’d say, “Just let me take her for a while so you can sleep.” But I couldn’t. Because what if he did something wrong? What if I let her go, and she was gone forever?
One night, she wouldn’t stop crying. It wasn’t the soft, tired whimper of a baby who just needed her mom. It was sharp, endless, like a scream trapped inside a body too small to hold it. I stood there, staring at her. My brain was screaming, pick her up, pick her up! But my body… my body wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t. I just stood there—frozen—watching her little chest heave with each cry. Watching her tiny fists flail. I heard the sound of every mistake I’d ever made. Every moment I wasn’t good enough. The weight of being a mom and not knowing how to be one. But I couldn’t move. Why am I even trying? I didn’t deserve her. I didn’t deserve to be here, with this perfect little human who had no idea her mother was broken.
They call it postpartum anxiety. It’s common, they said. Treatable. Manageable. But what they don’t tell you is that it doesn’t just go away. Some days, I still hear the whispers. I still count the breaths.
Shhh. Shhh. Goodnight, my darling. Goodnight, goodnight. Goodnight, my darling, goodnight, goodnight. As t