Baby Fatigue

Please keep in mind this post is written from my post-4-baby-mind. Not from years in the medical field, nor hours studying books about post-pardum. It actually comes from a place of personal experience in hopes that it may encourage you or at least give you something to read while you nurse your baby or eat lunch at work.

I have delivered four babies. You may have delivered yours with an epidural like me, or without. You may have pushed for hours or for one. Your baby may have come out via cesarean on his due date or four weeks early. This post is for the mom who carried a baby in her womb, delivered it one way or another, picked it up from the hospital because you were given the gift of adoption — and brought the baby home. Which — in my humble opinion — is a miracle in and of itself.

In fact, back in my seminary days I heckled a professor for a long time on the issue of “is having a baby a miracle?” My answer was and will always be one-hundred percent yes. But when I asked this question it was soon after we had miscarried what was once a faint beating heart. I was sad and still carrying around with me the complexity of feeling pregnant but not being pregnant. So, I was a tough nail to crack when the professor said (loose quote) that within the confines of true miracles (something occurring that was never intended to happen), the creation of a human within a woman was not a miracle — it was God’s design.

That was just a tangent. Food for thought. But what I took away from that answer is that a miracle is when the impossible happens. Which is why I still stand by the idea that carrying, delivering and bringing home a healthy baby or two is nothing short of a miracle.

But even the most grandeur of miracles can be a blip on an otherwise expansive, lifelong timeline. The blip of birthing a baby is actually just the start to a huge commitment. We tend to idealize the idea of bringing home a baby and how it will warm the cold spots in our homes and hearts. But then find ourselves disappointed or confused when our physical postpartum response often suggests that the transition is more challenging than we expected.

And I think that is also by design. We tend to forget the challenges of bringing home a baby just long enough to produce a desire to have another one. Then when we are able to have another one, we remember.

I drew this bell curve this morning to help you see what I’m going to be talking about. This is my post-baby-delivery bell curve.

could i have drawn this better? yes. maybe. probably not. (now hiring free graphic designers)

At the top of the bell curve on the left is where you find your happiest self. You just delivered your baby and are holding it in your arms. WELCOME TO THE WORLD, LITTLE BABY! This is a very happy moment where you literally unloaded the most enormous weight your body has ever held. It’s not only a relief to see your baby’s face, it’s a relief to feel a portion of the heaviness removed from your hips. Your spouse and you high-five and for a few moments in time things are good. You start learning how to feed your baby and introduce it to friends and family. These are good days. You bring your baby home, it fits right into the tiny carriage you bought for it, the crib is just right, too. The baby likes his new room, your other child shows a sign of kindness you’ve never seen. Things are going smoothly as the baby sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Your biggest concern is waking it up to feed him because if not he’d sleep all the day long.

Then after, say a month or two (or three or four or five — fill in with your own numbers), the baby wakes up. SAY WHAT LITTLE BABY, WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?! And you’ve got to rally. This is usually when you and your spouse decide who is taking what shift, who is responsible for diapers changes, who is responsible for feeding. This is when you start worrying about the cries of your newborn waking your other kids or your dog. You are feeling a little less bliss and a little more task-oriented. Baby training starts for some while others just lean in and nurse that baby as much as he or she wants. Either way, you, mom, are starting to feel the weight of the new baby. The honeymoon is over. Time to get to work. This is represented on the bell curve as “Functioning, No Sleep.” Everyone in the house is functioning with heavy eyes and shorter fuses. But there’s a smidge of newness still lingering, so it’s ok.

Then you enter what I like to call — the abominable abyss. It’s ugly. It’s dark. It’s gloomy. The fun has gone bye bye. Kicked from here to Mars. The dropped off meals have ended, family has returned home. You are on your own and living in an inexhaustible state of sleep deprivation. This is when you start wanting to run away with the circus, climb up a tree and never come down. This is when you start calling your husband “Brmph” because you can’t remember his name or have the energy to pronounce the syllables. This is when you turn on Netflix for your older kiddos and pray that they don’t start comparing you to the nasty old ice queen, Elsa. This is the longest season. As listed on my bell curve, his season lasts anywhere from five months (give or take) to five years (give or take a few years - just being honest here). It’s in this season that you may lose your ability to reason, think, process or laugh. It can be a tough season — often producing feelings of loneliness, anxiety and apathy. We feel alone even though we are surrounded by little humans all the time. It’s a hard season and as hard as your may fight to not fall prey to it — until you are sleeping — you may feel a little dark cloud over head.

But then.

Then one day.

Then one day you take a deep breath.

And realize.

You slept through the night.

Not just once, but twice.

Not just one week, but two.

The sleep deprivation is lessening and this is giving you a sense of return.

You are coming back.

You are almost back.

But it’s a new you. With every beautiful baby we are gifted with, we become a new person. As much as we want to believe we are the same person we once were, we just aren’t. Sure, our core remains but we are changed. Who I was when I was with my first baby is not who I am today.

Today I know a few more things than I did eight years ago, and that’s where the far right side of the bell curve comes in. Feeling free again is an act of God. Yes, sleep is one hundred percent a part of that, but accepting the new you and going into the world with the added responsibility of the new life or lives you have to care for, makes for a new version of yourself. Freedom here is found when you can embrace the beautiful road the Lord has given you — not comparing yours to any others. Not wanting to have something that you don’t have. It’s accepting that you have been given a task far greater than ever imagined — and that is to protect, guide and love the child(ren) you’ve been given.

That funny little word called freedom may look different to you once you get there. It may not be exactly what you had expected. It may include getting back to the gym, or the office or refining your craft — but it may just be feeling accomplished after getting everyone to school with almost matching gloves for each kid.

You may see at the top of the bell curve an arched dotted line. This here is what you believe in your heart. It’s what carriers you on your hardest days. It’s what you cling to. It’s the motivation for all that you do that grounds you as you parent — sleep-deprived or not.

For me, it’s always been gratitude. On my worse days, believe me, I wasn’t running around thanking God for the hardest days, but in my heart I was grateful. Each and every little life is a gift. For those of you who haven’t been able to bring babies home from the hospital, I know you know this best. Which is why you hold your babies tighter and why I want to be grateful on my most trying days.

Wherever you are on the bell curve (which I ASSUME is way different than mine!), let me encourage you to not get too stuck in the abyss. Open up your windows, turn on a podcast, invite a friend over and ask her to braid your hair. And keep doing that until you find that little taste of freedom to be the new you God is calling you to be.

Here’s to all the little babies — who came home from the hospital and who left us way too soon. And to all their moms — YOU ARE DOING IT. KEEP MOVING, KEEP TRUSTING, KEEP BELIEVING. And may the peace of Christ be your strength — and an extra cup of coffee never hurts either.

xo