Learning to Smell the Roses (and Poo) in a New Season of Life

Spring has just wrapped up here in the Bay Area and for most of the season my parents and I spent our evenings walking around the neighbourhood admiring the flowers in bloom. Our eyes were always drawn to the roses. Crimson red, soft lavender, bubblegum pink, and two-toned coral and yellow beauties. We’d stop each time to take in the heady fragrances and were amazed by their size. Some were as big as the palm of my hand. Or my baby boy’s head, I thought, as I looked at him snoozing his stroller next to the rose bush. The Bay Area and I were both going through new seasons — for me it was motherhood.

I enjoy learning new things; it’s a big part of what drives my writing and journalism. So when motherhood was on the horizon, I was nervous but excited. I’m not a fan of uncertainty and the unknown, but this time I was curious about what this chapter of my life would bring. My way of mentally preparing for the new experiences ahead of me was to try and cultivate a go-with-the-flow attitude. That should help make the early days of postpartum easier, right?

Wrong.

Everything I read and learned talked about caring for babies in the fourth trimester, the 12 weeks after birth. Parents are told to create environments that mimic the womb because babies struggle to adapt to our world for the first three months. But there wasn’t much information on how to help mothers care for themselves during this period, when they also struggle to adapt to a new state of being.

I was told about the massive hormonal changes, and postpartum depression and anxiety. A booklet I got says this about the baby blues that can affect many mothers: “You may be tearful, tired, and have mild mood swings“. It sounded so innocuous when I read it. But when I went through it I felt like a kite in a tornado — unmoored and lost.

My mind was constantly flooded with a hundred different thoughts about baby care, my body was behaving in ways I didn’t understand. My days were divided into three hour windows of feeding, changing, and burping the baby and squeezing in pumping sessions. I’d spend hours every evening crying, worried about how I’d raise a child or upset about staying so far away from my family and friends in India. I’d wake up in the middle of the night soaked with sweat, even though it was 12 degrees because of hormonal changes. I lost interest in things I used to enjoy, and didn’t have the mental bandwidth to think about the world beyond myself and the baby.

I never imagined that something I’d wanted so badly could cause me such angst. This state of being was all consuming and I hated it.

In the early days of postpartum, I’d go for walks with my parents and leave the baby with my partner. We’d talk about things happening back home in Bombay, what to cook for lunch the next day — everything other than baby-related topics. We’d stop at different gardens and marvel at the spring blooms. I needed to remember how to connect with the world beyond my child, and the sunflowers, poppies, bougainvillea, and roses helped me do just that. 

What also helped was just giving things time, something all the mothers around me told me to do. “It will get better,” they said. I never believed them. But one day, about three weeks after giving birth, I woke up without a feeling of dread. My mood swings subsided, I started to feel less like a milk machine and more like an actual person. I cooked and exercised and watched Bridgerton.

Over time, I grew to be accepting of the constant changes and of the unknown. And I learned to focus on the now, which was a big change for me since I love living in the past or planning for the future. Poop explosions have a way of pulling you back to the present. My brain still swings between the past and future, but I’ve got better at not indulging those patterns. I use my mental energies to stay in the moment, whether that’s enjoying my baby’s giggles or trying to calm him when he’s cranky.

I’ve also got better at taking things one day at a time. Shitty sleep, projectile vomiting, and fussy feeds made the days feel long and endless. In the first few weeks, it was difficult to imagine days that wouldn’t be like that. I’d feel bad when my son spat up a lot, or when I couldn’t get him to sleep, and those negative feelings would weigh on me. But I had to remind myself that each day was a fresh start and that I shouldn’t carry the previous day’s losses forward.

These changes came gradually, and it’s taken me months to recognise and appreciate them. It took me all of spring to realize that the roses and my baby weren’t the only ones growing this season. I was, too.