Part of me says I shouldn't be writing this on here. Another part of me says that I need to get this outta me, and this is the only place I can do that.
Marshall is just over 3 weeks old. During the last 3 weeks, I have had a calmness in my heart, a happiness I haven't felt in a very long time. But in all honesty, I'm hurting. I'm hurting so bad....
Adjusting to a new baby was nothing. Adjusting to being a family, well, that hasn't been so easy. It honestly doesn't even feel like a family. It feels like a man inconvenienced by a girl and her baby. I feel like we are here out of necessity, because he has nowhere else to go, rather than because we are actually wanted.
I feel like I'm dancing on the edge of a really nasty post-partum depression.
I had a natural delivery. The first our hospital had seen in quite a long time, according to some of the nurses. Bryan was supportive. My doula was amazing. I had mild pre-eclampsia and my lady parts tore pretty bad, but otherwise, it was a perfect delivery of a perfect baby. I was told I was even laughing at some point during the end of delivery.
I cut Marshall's cord, and when they laid him on my chest he latched almost immediately. I was in shock and disbelief that it was real. I couldn't stop staring at him, not because he was perfect or beautiful, but simply because he was alive. Bryan refused to hold him. He was in such a fret over the dog not going outside that he left before things were cleaned up or the baby was done with his vitals. My doula helped me move into our room.
Our son, that we waited so long for, that I prayed so hard for, that I spent so long on bed rest trying to keep alive, was not even half an hour old, and he had other things to do. He couldn't hold him. He couldn't take pictures. He had to leave. Calling it a slap in the face is a huge understatement.
The swelling and stitches kept me from being able to move around very well. I had to have help getting in and out of bed so that I could get to the bathroom. Marshall was born during finals week, and Bryan didn't talk to his teachers, so he had to leave during the day for his tests. Marshall had to stay in the bed with me most of the day because I had no way of tending to him without calling for a nurse. Since I was alone, I wasn't getting up often enough, so I lost control of my bladder for a few days.
My parents got here a couple days after I was discharged, but I still couldn't move very well. My lady parts were the size of a grapefruit, so naturally, that's gonna take a while to heal. (Ok, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. A tangerine is probably more accurate, not that anyone cares to know.)
I wanted to rest at home with my new baby and my parents. My parents wanted to relax and help out with the baby. Bryan wanted to show them everything on the damn island. A simple trip to the grocery store had to turn into an entire family event. I cried getting into and out of the truck. I held my breath while I sat because I couldn't possibly get comfortable. I actually tore a little more because of all the moving and stretching. I wasn't able to nurse or pump for hours at a time, so I was constantly engorged and sore.
I tried to explain that breastfed babies have to eat every couple hours. I tried to explain that I have to get the milk out every couple hours, even if I have to pump. I ended up with blocked ducts that completely cut the flow on one side. Nothing would come out. Not a drop. So Bryan started pushing formula. Even if I was trying to nurse him, Bryan was still trying to push a bottle of formula at him. Even after the ducts got better.
Bryan figured out how to change a diaper. He carries the car seat and the stroller at the same time because he doesn't want to let anyone help. He shoves a bottle or a pacifier in "the kid's" face every time he whimpers. So that makes him strong and awesome. He's constantly stroking his ego with how awesome a dad he is and how he's so great at this and so great at that.
Last week he pitched a mad fit because I told him it was too cold at the beach for the baby. So he jerked the car seat out of the stroller and stomped off to the truck. He got mad because he wanted to fix a bottle of formula, and I handed him a freshly pumped bottle, with the pump still on it. He couldn't get the pump off so he threw it across the house.
I get told I'm doing this wrong and questioned about doing that. I was told that breastfeeding just wasn't for me because I was having problems. I'm up all hours of the night without help. I've tripped on the dog and landed flat on my ass almost every night for two weeks. I do laundry, I clean the house, I bathe and feed the baby. But I'm just grumpy and "fucking shitty" all the time. I'm not awesome. I'm not doing a good job. I'm apparently not even doing things right.
Bryan's dad is in town to see Marshall. He keeps joking about taking my baby. At one point, he wasn't even joking. He said that if his ex-wife was out here at the same time, he was taking the dog and the baby and leaving. And of course, once again, I'm doing this or that wrong. I'm not able to nurse on schedule. Hell, I don't even get to see my baby until night time when I'm bathing him and getting him ready for bed.
They want me to take pictures of them while he's here, of their 3 generations. It's his dad's idea, but it's the most interest he has shown since we came home. Our son is 3 weeks old, and we don't even have a picture of the three of US together. Not even at the hospital.
I'm tired of company. I'm tired of being told I'm wrong. I'm tired of being told how to take care of my baby. I'm tired of not being good enough. I'm tired of the jokes and taking over things. I'm tired of the lack of support and encouragement. I'm tired of the bullshit arguments and personality clashes and angry fits. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not wanted. I'm tired of feeling like my son isn't wanted, like he's an inconvenience. I'm tired of all of it.
I go back to work in 3 weeks, and Marshall starts daycare. I just want to rest and love on my baby while I can.