what I did and what I couldn't

No one is impressed with what I did or remembered before 8am. I'm the only one who even knows how long my list was, or that it begins the moment the last kid falls asleep each night, and even I can only see the things I didn't do.

The daycare teacher called to remind me to please put the blue tape on the baby's bottle caps. I remembered to write his full name and date on the blue tape that sticks to all three of his bottles, and the red band to note that it's human breast milk. And all that milk? I pumped all 15oz in the middle of my work day while catching up on emails and, at the same time, falling behind on the work that used to be easy for me.

I remembered her Chromebook and its charger. Two spirals, both math workbooks, a pencil pouch with all the things, pink head phones and matching pink mouse, a dollar bill for the snack she wants to buy, the Expo markers, the play-doh, the ADHD medication and her activity schedule and motivational system that I made her myself, the lunch I packed the night before, the mask, the extra mask. I filled out her covid-screener, my covid screener, took everyone's temperature, and made sure she had plenty of time to tie her shoes by herself. I even sent off that email to her neurodevelopmental ped about her 504 renewal meeting this month. But she wanted to chew gum on the way to "school" but the pack was empty. She wanted a different Taylor Swift song that wouldn't load, and wanted her dad to drop her off. And despite my very best efforts for a seamless morning, I had already yelled and she had already cried. It's only 7:40am.

Maternity leave is so far gone, but my hair still comes out in clumps e v e r y d a y, my hormones still feel wildly out of my control, my breasts still soak my shirt from time to time, and the baby blues I had with my others feel nothing like the ugly postpartum anxiety and depression that took over this time. I wish I was the weepy kind of depressed mom. Maybe it would feel good to cry? Instead I'm the rage-y kind which only makes the guilt worse. Will this postpartum ever end?

There is so much for parents to carry, especially this year. An enormous invisible load on top of the number of children people can see spilling out of our arms. But nobody seems to care.

That's not actually true, I know; I'm so lucky to have the friends, family, and colleagues that I do. Heck, even the stranger at Target who heard me scream the darkest scream to stop my three-year-old from being hit by a car, offered her empathy as she passed us: "I almost had a heart attack," she said to me as I grabbed my kids' hands, pulling one who is stomping her feet, still holding a grudge about the toy I wouldn't buy her, and another who was scared shitless because he had no idea his mom could scream that kind of scream reserved for parents who think they can't stop their child from being killed. Even if I could have reached him to pull him back, I was wearing his baby brother, and in that instant I chose the baby. (I wonder how long I'll hold onto that guilt?) But even the woman who saw us drowning didn't offer to help-- how could she during this pandemic? We passed each other, our faces covered in masks. Mine wet with stinging tears.

But I remember when strangers would tell me how amazing I was to be out grabbing coffee with my newborn, back when I gave his age in days. Like it was a true feat that I'd showered and stood there holding my perfect sleeping babe while someone else made my latte and my kids were safely at school. 

This shouldn't need to be said, but 8 months later the baby is still here, and rather than impressing people that I put on pants and left my house, the world has moved on. All expectations of what it is to be a good mother and a good working mother are just as high as before... even during a pandemic.

My midwife reminds me that I need to pace myself after she asks which pharmacy to send my anti-depressant prescription to. But the world doesn't see the dogged pace that mothers run. Or maybe they do see it, as they say, "I almost had a heart attack," and pass by our full arms.

day 4