This is a love letter to all those women who have just had a squawking baby exit their body and are wondering if they will ever feel normal again.
In a word: no. The axis of your world has shifted forever more. All your decisions – the length of your showers, the contents of your handbag, and the dangliness of your earrings – will now be determined by this creature that was once safely packed away inside you and is now exposed to the elements.
Yes, you will one day be able to sit again and do all those things you once foolishly took for granted, like using the loo without sobbing and sleeping for longer than thirty minutes. But not tonight, and possibly not for another five years. Don’t hold your breath. Also, it is unlikely you will be able to sneeze again without crossing your legs. And good luck if you ever get a hacking cough. Your trampolining days, I’m afraid, are over.
Those first few minutes
If this is your first rodeo, you are sore in body parts you didn’t know existed. Modern medicine has worked up a grand total of two methods of baby-removal from full-term pregnant women. You either push one out yourself (akin to coaxing a watermelon through a straw) or have your body sliced open to have it yanked out. Frankly, neither of these options is appealing.
The great thing about the horrific process of giving birth, however, is painkillers. Perhaps you have been offered an epidural, in which case, you now know that there is no sweeter human being in the entire universe than the individual who administered those hard drugs into your spine. Or maybe you discovered the joys of gas and air, which you are currently inhaling as you are stitched up in places you did not know would ever need to be stitched up. The doctor overseeing you is giving you crazy instructions like, “These stitches must be kept dry at all times.” You wonder if this person is also high on drugs, because you do not see how anyone can keep anything dry in this wretched heat.
If you are a Jane Austen fan girl, be careful. Gas and air will make you high, but do not tell your dear other half “Nothing you say will ever vex me again!” Not only will this make your medical team snigger at you, it is also a total lie. A new father is biologically obliged to provide a wealth of vexation during these trying times. For example, five minutes after you have given birth, the new father may ferret through the baby bag and ask you why you packed all this makeup but forgot to pack the new baby’s hat. You consider throwing something at the father, but all throwable instruments are out of reach.
Where’s the love?
You look at this loud, squirmy, scowly (and hatless) baby that has been unceremoniously dumped upon you seconds after being born. Irritatingly, he looks exactly like his father. You are wondering how on earth you are meant to keep this creature alive and do things like change diapers when you can’t even remember to pack a hat. You are not exactly sure how to fasten a diaper. You can’t even remember to water your plants at home. Perhaps, not unlike Gob from Arrested Development, the verdict “I’ve just made a huge mistake” parades through your weary mind.
You tell your mind to shut up and wait for the surge of oxytocin-fuelled unconditional love that is supposed to arrive any second now. All you can think about is how irresponsible of the hospital it would be to let you leave with this baby when you can’t even keep your wardrobe at home from overflowing. (You gave your wardrobe a thorough cleaning during your nesting phase, but your brains have not been so addled by hormones they do not recognise that this nesting phase of pregnancy will definitely not stretch to the postpartum era.)
You wonder if maternal instinct will elude you forever. Other women have experienced it. Jennifer Lawrence, who loves mothering so much that she has consented to becoming pregnant with baby number two, has previously gushed to Cameron Diaz about how precious she thinks all babies are. Meanwhile Sanam Jung, who had baby number two during the summer, waxed lyrical about this unconditional love business on her Instagram recently. Why, your own mother deigned to give you at least one sibling and professes to love you all the same. Surely they can’t all be making it up.
Finding your new self
Speaking of babies, this one needs a name. You have the perfect name ready, but you are surrounded by elders (either on your side or the father’s side – whom you have still not forgiven for the hat comment) with extremely strong opinions about this name business. A beautiful name is calling out to you, but the powers that be want to consult their beloved Peer Sahab for the official naming ceremony. You are familiar with the Peer Sahab and his taste in names. Those names would suit an octogenarian, but not your sweet innocent baby. You consider hypnotising the man and holding him hostage until he gives you the name you desire and – ooh! What’s this? This must be all those maternal instincts at play! Your baby is just an hour old, and you already considered hypnotising someone for him! Of course, it’s a pyrrhic victory, because your dear other half will choose this moment to say, “Look, we need to be diplomatic about this.” In a remarkable show of strength, you do not kill him.
Whatever the baby ends up being called, on that first roller coaster of a day, you will discover a spark of something that will ignite a lifelong love. The spark could be the desire to slap someone to avoid a hideous name. Or it could be the nameless baby gripping your finger (even if he does look nothing like you) in his sleep.
Love, you see, is not about an Instagram power play on which mother will outdo her peers. Nor is it about picking a side in the breastfeeding/bottle-feeding battle. Love is wading through the wild postpartum hormones, the monstrous stitches, the awful bathroom trips in that first month and the sleepless nights that seemingly yawn into eternity. Love is getting out of bed for the fiftieth time to rock your baby to sleep. Love is learning how to change diapers in the dark with your eyes closed. It is about turning a blind eye to the crisscross of stretch marks. Love is like the steady ticking of time. Always there with no fuss, no muss, whether you want it or not.
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