Notes from 3 months postpartum
The following is attempt number one at writing like one of my favorite authors, Jack Kerouac. I imagine his style of writing is the freest kind. Throwing grammar, convention, and all rules out the window to express something raw and pure. Enjoy it (or not)!
Messy, messy desk. Bad posture, like hunchback of Notre Dame someday bad posture, and legs aching against the seat of a used office chair. Clock ticking silently, the hour of my alone time counting down. A father and a son in the room next door.
Remembering, I haven’t brushed my teeth all day, despite my best efforts not to forget. Hair falling out. Remembering, I have to go back to work in nine months. Remembering, his soft, squishy little face, memorizing it, his fingers, his toes, his baby hair and baby nails so small - so I’ll never forget. Separation anxiety and tears at the thought of being away from him. Will mommy’s return to work traumatize the little man?
All day long, I breastfeed and hold him, hold him and breastfeed. Think about bottle feeding. Think about daddy’s night shifts. Think about being replaced by a bottle. Think that no one can take care of him like I can.
No one will ever love you like I do, son. No one could ever love you like that. The way I was loved by my mum.
You’re crying now. Feels like you’re calling for me. Every time. Shoulders ache, the minutes wind down. The hour is ending. Fast, slow days. Eat sleep rinse repeat. I live so that you, little man, may do the same.
Wow... Sounds so intense. Sending hugs xxx