Now, before you get your briefs in a bunch, let me explain that you really shouldn't take my feelings at the moment personally. I know that might sound crazy, but it's the truth. Listen, we've just had a baby either what was an actual minute ago or simply feels like a minute ago because giving birth or bringing home a baby both flies by and drags by—something you may or may not know, which is part of the reason I hate you.
But even though we've both had this baby, I have to admit it feels a little unbalanced right now. I mean, let's face it, nine months ago, when we hopped on this train to crazy town, who was having more fun? Hmm-mm, I thought so. And who enjoyed a brief moment of bliss and got to skip merrily away on his way while one of us (hint: me) was left barfing for months, growing as big as a house, and being introduced or reintroduced to our friends hemorrhoids, varicose veins, swollen everything and back fat? *raises hand*
My life has exploded into a tiny little slivers of fear and guilt and an overwhelming sense that I have no idea what I'm doing.
So let's just admit that life is different for us as parents, OK? This is not to say that I forgot, or am not thankful for, all the ways you picked up my "slack" whilst growing a human being, or how many times you rubbed my swollen feet, or all the times you laughed at me trying to pick something up off the floor, you jerk. Wait, I got distracted there for a minute, sorry. The point is, I acknowledge all you have done for our family and I know that deep down, somewhere, I realize you had no control over any of this, just as I had no control over my bladder.
But it still doesn't feel all that fab.
And you know what else doesn't feel fab? Seeing you all snug and cozy under the covers SLEEPING from my perch in the corner chair feeding the baby for the millionth time that night. Oh, and I know you're tired too, but please. Put some nipple clamps and a diaper on, throw yourself down the stairs until you're so sore you can barely move, and then come talk to me.
The point is, husband, that I am having a hard time adjusting. I don't know who I am or what has become of my life and while I suspect that I won't hate you forever, a tiny part of me is afraid that I will. A little part of me fears that this baby will come between us, creating a canyon distance of resentment, especially if I can't talk to you about it. If I sit here in my diaper in this corner with this piranha stuck to my boobs and simmer in silence, that just might happen. I will remain here, fixating on my hatred for you and how my life has exploded into a tiny little slivers of fear and guilt and an overwhelming sense that I have no idea what I'm doing, and I will keep it all inside until it's too late.
Which is why, dear husband, I'm telling this to you now instead. I don't want that to happen to us, to me. I don't want to hate you forever. I want to understand that you are worried too, that you can finally breathe a sigh of relief because you don't have to worry about the worst of the worst happening to me in those long nine months and the moments you stood by my side as we became parents. I want to know that you sleep so you can be rested to take over when I can't do it anymore. I want to know that even though you can't ever fully know what it's like to try to live with a mother's heart, your heart as a father is more than enough.
I want to know that despite what I may think, my adult diapers, leaking boobs and stretch marks (multiplied by a million) really do not horrify you. I mean, I could have swam in a pool of coconut oil or olive oil or whatever-the-hell-celebrity oil they are now promoting and it wouldn't have done a damn thing. Skin can only stretch so far before it shatters itself.
But again, I'm getting distracted, which is par the course for life as a mom and (come to think of it) reason #5414 I hate you. You don't walk into a room and forget what you were doing 0.3 seconds after getting there do you? Hmmmphhh.
So I guess what I'm trying to say, husband, is I hate you a little right now, but it's mostly because I'm just really, really scared. And I need you, most of all, to let me know that it's OK to hate you a little, so that at the end of the day, I know you're in this thing all the way with me. And hopefully, in a month or so, I can go back to never hating you at all.
Well, except when you leave the toilet seat up, of course. I will always hate you for that. It's seriously not that hard to remember.
Your Diaper-Wearing, Milk-Making, Sexy Stretch-marked Wife Who Just Had a Baby